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The Mystery of the Downs

by John R. Watson · English · Gutenberg #45658 · 455,395 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Mystery of the Downs

Author: John R. Watson
        Arthur J. Rees


        
Release date: May 16, 2014 [eBook #45658]
                Most recently updated: October 24, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/45658

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MYSTERY OF THE DOWNS ***

THE MYSTERY OF THE DOWNS




BY THE SAME AUTHORS


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY

"The care with which the story is written, the complicated plot and
the clash of the different practices of man-hunters lift it out of the
common run of mystery tales and make it an absorbing book."

                                            _Philadelphia Press._

    NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY
    LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD




THE MYSTERY OF THE DOWNS

    BY WATSON & REES
    AUTHORS OF "THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY," ETC.

[Illustration]

    NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY
    LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD
    TORONTO: S.B. GUNDY
    MCMXVIII




    COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY
    JOHN LANE COMPANY



    Press of
    J. J. Little & Ives Company
    New York, U.S.A.




THE MYSTERY OF THE DOWNS



CHAPTER I


THE storm had descended swiftly, sweeping in suddenly from the sea,
driving across the downs to the hills at high speed, blotting out the
faint rays of a crescent moon and hiding the country-side beneath
a pall of blackness, which was forked at intervals by flashes of
lightning.

The darkness was so impenetrable, and the fury of the storm so fierce,
that Harry Marsland pulled his hat well over his eyes and bent over his
horse's neck to shield his face from the driving rain, trusting to the
animal's sagacity and sure-footedness to take him safely down the cliff
road in the darkness, where a slip might plunge them into the breakers
which he could hear roaring at the foot of the cliffs.

Hardly had Marsland done so when his horse swerved violently right
across the road--fortunately to the side opposite the edge of the
cliffs--slipped and almost fell, but recovered itself and then stood
still, snorting and trembling with fear.

He patted and spoke to the horse, wondering what had frightened it.
He had seen or heard nothing, but the darkness of the night and the
roar of the gale would have prevented him, even if his face had not
been almost buried in his horse's neck. However, the rain, beating with
sharp persistence on his face and through his clothes, reminded him
that he was some miles from shelter on a lonely country road, with only
a vague idea of his whereabouts. So, with a few more soothing words, he
urged his horse onward again. The animal responded willingly enough,
but as soon as it moved Marsland discovered to his dismay that it was
lame in the off hind leg. The rider was quick to realize that it must
have sprained itself in swerving.

He slipped out of his saddle and endeavoured to feel the extent of the
horse's injury, but the animal had not entirely recovered from its
fright, and snorted as his master touched it. Marsland desisted, and
gently pulled at the bridle.

The horse struggled onwards a few paces, but it was badly lamed, and
could not be ridden. It thrust a timid muzzle against its master's
breast, as though seeking refuge from its fears and the fury of the
storm. Marsland patted its head caressingly, and, facing the unpleasant
fact that he was on an unknown lonely road with a lame horse in the
worst storm he had ever seen, drew the bridle over his arm and started
to walk forward.

He found it difficult to make progress in the teeth of the gale, but
he realized that it would be useless to retrace his steps with the wind
at his back, for only the bleak bare downs he had ridden over that
afternoon lay behind, and the only house he had seen was a shepherd's
cottage on the hill-side where he had stopped to inquire his way before
the storm came on. There was nothing to be done but face the gale and
go forward, following the cliff road which skirted the downs, or to
seek shelter for himself and his horse at the way-side house until the
fury of the storm had abated. Prudence and consideration for his horse
dictated the latter course, but in the blackness of the night--which
hung before him like a cloud--he was unable to discern a twinkle of
light denoting human habitation.

The storm seemed to gather fresh force, rushing in from the sea with
such fury that Marsland was compelled to stand still and seek shelter
beside his horse. As he stood thus, waiting for it to abate, a vivid
flash of lightning ran across the western sky, revealing lividly the
storm clouds flying through the heavens, the mountainous yellow-crested
sea, and the desolate, rain-beaten downs; but it revealed, also, a
farm-house standing in the valley below, a little way back from the
road which wound down towards it from where Marsland stood.

The lightning died away, the scene it had illumined disappeared, and
a clap of thunder followed. Marsland heaved a sigh of relief. He
judged that the house was less than a half a mile down the hill, a
large, gaunt, three-storied stone building, with steeply sloping roof,
standing back from the road, with a barn beside it. Doubtless it was
the home of a sheep-farmer of the downs, who would at any rate afford
shelter to himself and his horse till the violence of the storm had
passed.

The horse responded to an encouraging appeal as though it fully
understood, and Marsland doggedly resumed his battle with the storm.
The road slanted away slightly from the cliff when horse and rider had
covered another hundred yards, and wound through a long cutting on
the hill which afforded some protection from the gale, enabling them
to make quicker progress. But still Marsland could not see a yard in
front of him. Even if his eyes had become accustomed to the darkness,
the heavy rain, beating almost horizontally on his face, would have
prevented him seeing anything.

He had matches in his pocket, but it was useless to attempt to strike
them in such a wind, and he reproached himself for having come away
without his electric torch. Slowly and cautiously he made his way down
the road, feeling his footsteps as he went, the tired horse following
obediently. The cutting seemed a long one, but at length a sudden blast
of wind, roaring in from the sea, told him that he had emerged into the
open again. He counted off another hundred paces, then paused anxiously.

"The house ought to be somewhere on the left down there," he muttered,
staring blindly into the dark.

He wondered in an irritated fashion why there were no lights showing
from the farm-house, which he felt must be very close to where he
stood. But he recollected that farmers kept early hours, and he
realized that the occupants of the house might well be excused for
going to bed on such a night even earlier than usual.

As though in answer to an unspoken wish, a flash of lightning played
over the sky. It was faint and fitful, but it was sufficient to reveal
the farm standing a little way ahead, about a hundred yards back from
the road. He saw clearly the hedge which divided its meadows from the
road, and noted that a gate leading into a wagon drive on the side of
the meadow nearest him had been flung open by the force of the gale,
and was swinging loosely on its hinges.

"They'll thank me for closing that gate if they've got any stock in the
meadows," said Marsland.

The swinging white gate was faintly visible in the darkness when
Marsland came close to it, and he turned into the open drive. He
noticed as he walked along that the gale was not so severely felt
inside as out on the road, and he came to the conclusion that the farm
was in a more sheltered part of the downs--was probably shielded from
the wind by the hill through which the cutting ran.

He reflected that it was a good idea to build in a sheltered spot
when farming on low downs facing the English Channel. He was glad to
be able to walk upright, with the wind behind him and the rain on his
back instead of beating on his face. For one thing, he found he was
able to make some use of his eyes in spite of the darkness, and soon
he discerned the house looming bleakly ahead of him, with the barn
alongside.

As Marsland passed the barn, his horse surprised him by whinnying
sharply and plucking the loose bridle from his arm. He felt for his
matchbox and hastily struck a match. The wind extinguished it, but not
before its brief splutter of light showed him the horse disappearing
through an open doorway.

He followed it and struck another match. It flared up steadily under
cover, and he saw that he was in a small storehouse attached to the
barn. Gardening tools were neatly piled in one corner, and in another
were a stack of potatoes and some bags of grain. His horse was plucking
ravenously at one of the bags. By the light of another match Marsland
espied an old lantern hanging on a nail above the tools. He took it
from the nail, and found that it contained a short end of candle--a
sight which filled him with pleasure.

He found a tin dish on top of the cornstack, opened one of the bags,
poured a measure of oats into it, and set it before his horse. The
animal eagerly thrust his nose into the dish and commenced to eat.
Marsland patted its wet flank, and then examined the injured leg by the
light of the lantern. His examination failed to reveal any specific
injury beyond a slight swelling, though the horse winced restively as
he touched it.

Marsland left the horse munching contentedly at its food, shut the door
of the storehouse to prevent the animal wandering away, and set out for
the house. The light of the lantern showed him a path branching off the
drive. He followed it till the outline of the house loomed before him
out of the darkness.

The path led across the front of the house, but Marsland looked in vain
for a ray of light in the upper stories which would indicate that one
of the inmates was awake. He walked on till the path turned abruptly
into a large porch, and he knew he had reached the front door. Instead
of knocking, he walked past the porch in order to see if there was any
light visible on the far side of the house. It was with pleasure that
he observed a light glimmering through the second window on the ground
floor. Judging by the position of the window, it belonged to the room
immediately behind the front room on the right side of the house.

Marsland returned to the porch and vigorously plied the knocker on the
door, so that the sound should be heard above the storm. He listened
anxiously for approaching footsteps of heavily-shod feet, but the first
sound he heard was that of the bolt being drawn back.

"Where have you been?" exclaimed a feminine voice. "I have been
wondering what could have happened to you."

The girl who had opened the door to him had a candle in her hand. As
she spoke, she shielded the light with her other hand and lifted it to
his face. She uttered a startled exclamation.

"I beg your pardon," said Marsland, in an ingratiating tone. "I have
lost my way and my horse has gone lame. I have taken the liberty of
putting him in the outbuildings before coming to ask you for shelter
from the storm."

"To ask me?" she repeated. "Oh, of course. Please come in."

Marsland closed the door and followed her into the dark and silent
hall. She led the way into the room where he had seen the light, placed
the candle on the table, and retreated to a chair which was in the
shadow. It occurred to him that she was anxious to study him without
being exposed to his scrutiny. But he had noticed that she was wearing
a hat and a dark cloak. These things suggested to him that she had
been on the point of going out when the storm came on. The mistaken
way in which she had greeted him on opening the door seemed to show
that she had been waiting for some one who was to have accompanied her.
Apparently she was alone in the house when he had knocked.

"I am sorry to have intruded on you in this unceremonious way," he
said, reviving his apology with the object of enabling her to dismiss
any fears at her own unprotected state. "I am completely lost, and
when I saw this house I thought the best thing I could do was to seek
shelter."

"You are not intruding upon me," she said coldly. "The house is not
mine--I do not live here. I saw the storm coming on, and, like you, I
thought it was a good idea to seek shelter."

It was apparent to him that her greeting had been intended for some one
who had accompanied her to the house and had gone to one of the farm
buildings for some purpose. He noted that her manner of speaking was
that of a well-bred young lady rather than of a farmer's daughter.

The room in which they were sitting was evidently used as a parlour,
and was somberly furnished in an old-fashioned way. There was a
horsehair suite, and in the middle of the room a large round table.
Glancing about him into the dark corners of the room which the feeble
light of the candle barely reached, Marsland noticed in one of them a
large lamp standing on a small table.

"That will give us a better light," he said; "providing, of course, it
has some oil in it."

He lifted the lamp to the centre table, and found it was nearly full
of oil. He lit it, and it sent out a strong light, which was, however,
confined to a radius of a few feet by a heavy lampshade. He glanced
at the girl. She had extinguished her candle, and her face remained
obstinately in shadow.

He sat down on one of the horsehair chairs; but his companion remained
standing a little distance away. They waited in silence thus for some
minutes. Marsland tried to think of something to say, but there was a
pensive aloofness about the girl's attitude which deterred him from
attempting to open a conversation with a conventional remark about the
violence of the storm. He listened for a knock at the front door which
would tell him that her companion had returned, but to his surprise the
minutes passed without any sign. He thought of asking her to sit down,
but he reflected that such an invitation might savour of impertinence.
He could dimly see the outline of her profile, and judged her to be
young and pretty. Once he thought she glanced in his direction, but
when he looked towards her she had her face still turned towards the
door. Finally he made another effort to break down the barrier of
silence between them.

"I suppose we must wait here until the storm has cleared away," he
began. "It is a coincidence that both of us should have sought shelter
in this empty house in the storm--I assume the house is empty for
the time being or we would have heard from the inmates. My name is
Marsland. I have been staying at Staveley, and I lost my way when out
riding this afternoon--the downs seem endless. Perhaps you belong to
the neighbourhood and know them thoroughly."

But instead of replying she made a swift step towards the door.

"Listen!" she cried. "What was that?"

He stood up also, and listened intently, but the only sounds that met
his ears were the beating of the rain against the windows and the wind
whistling mournfully round the old house.

"I hear nothing----" he commenced.

But she interrupted him imperatively.

"Hush!" she cried. "Listen!" Her face was still turned away from him,
but she held out a hand in his direction as though to enjoin silence.

They stood in silence, both listening intently. Somewhere a board
creaked, and Marsland could hear the wind blowing, but that was all.

"I do not think it was anything," he said reassuringly. "These old
houses have a way of creaking and groaning in a gale. You have become
nervous through sitting here by yourself."

"Perhaps that is so," she assented in a friendlier tone than she had
hitherto used. "But I thought--in fact, I felt--that somebody was
moving about stealthily overhead."

"It was the wind sighing about the house," he said, sitting down again.

As he spoke, there was a loud crash in a room above--a noise as though
china or glass had been broken. Marsland sprang to his feet.

"There _is_ somebody in the house," he exclaimed.

"Who can it be?" she whispered.

"Probably some one who has more right here than we have," said Marsland
soothingly. "He'll come downstairs and then we'll have to explain our
presence here."

"The man who lives here is away," she replied, in a hushed tone of
terror. "He lives here alone. If there is anybody in the house, it is
some one who has no right here."

"If you are sure of that," said Marsland slowly, "I will go and
see what has happened in the room above. The wind may have knocked
something over. Will you stay here until I return?"

"No, no!" she cried, "I am too frightened now. I will go with you!"

He felt her hand on his sleeve as she spoke.

"In that case we may as well take this lamp," he said. "It will give
more light than this." He put down his lantern and picked up the lamp
from the table. "Come along, and see what havoc the wind has been
playing with the furniture upstairs."

He led the way out of the room, carefully carrying the lamp, and the
girl followed. They turned up the hall to the staircase. As the light
of the lamp fell on the staircase they saw a piece of paper lying on
one of the lower stairs. Marsland picked it up and was so mystified at
what he saw on it that he placed the lamp on a stair above in order to
study it more closely.

"What can this extraordinary thing mean?" he said to his companion.
He put his left hand in the top pocket of his waistcoat, and then
exclaimed: "I have lost my glasses; I cannot make this out without
them."

She came close to him and looked at the paper.

The sheet was yellow with age, and one side of it was covered with
figures and writing. There was a row of letters at the top of the
sheet, followed by a circle of numerals, with more numerals in the
centre of the circle. Underneath the circle appeared several verses of
Scripture written in a small, cramped, but regular handwriting. The ink
which had been used in constructing the cryptogram was faded brown with
age, but the figures and the writing were clear and legible, and the
whole thing bore evidence of patient and careful construction.

"This is very strange," she said, in a frightened whisper.

Marsland thought she was referring to the diagrams on the paper.

"It is a mysterious sort of document, whoever owns it," he said. "I
think I'll put it on the table in there and we will study it again when
we come down after exploring the other parts of the house."

He picked up the lamp and went back to the room they had left. He
deposited the sheet of paper on the table and placed the candlestick on
it to keep it from being blown away by the wind.

"Now for the ghosts upstairs," he said cheerfully, as he returned.

He noted with a smile that his companion made a point of keeping behind
him in all his movements. When they had climbed the first flight of
stairs, they stood for a moment or two on the landing, listening, but
could hear no sound.

"Let us try this room first," said Marsland, pointing to a door
opposite the landing.

The door was closed but not shut, for it yielded to his touch and
swung open, revealing a large bedroom with an old-fashioned fourposter
in the corner furthest from the door. Marsland glanced round the
room curiously. It was the typical "best bedroom" of an old English
farm-house, built more than a hundred years before the present
generation came to life, with their modern ideas of fresh air and light
and sanitation. The ceiling was so low that Marshland almost touched it
with his head as he walked, and the small narrow-paned windows, closely
shuttered from without, looked as though they had been hermetically
sealed for centuries.

The room contained furniture as ancient as its surroundings: quaint
old chests of drawers, bureaux, clothes-presses, and some old
straight-backed oaken chairs. On the walls were a few musty old
books on shelves, a stuffed pointer in a glass case, a cabinet of
stuffed birds, some dingy hunting prints. The combination of low
ceiling, sealed windows, and stuffed animals created such a vault-like
atmosphere that Marsland marvelled at the hardy constitution of
that dead and gone race of English yeomen who had suffered nightly
internment in such chambers and yet survived to a ripe old age. His
eyes wandered to the fourposter, and he smiled as he noticed that the
heavy curtains were drawn close, as though the last sleeper in the
chamber had dreaded and guarded against the possibility of some stray
shaft of fresh air eluding the precautions of the builder and finding
its way into the room.

"Nothing here," he said, as he glanced round the floor of the room for
broken pieces of glass or china ornaments that might have been knocked
over by the wind or by a cat. "Let us try the room opposite."

She was the first to reach the door of the opposite room to which they
turned. It occurred to Marsland that her fears were wearing off. As he
reached the threshold, he lifted up the lamp above his head so that its
light should fall within.

The room was a bedroom also, deep and narrow as though it had been
squeezed into the house as an afterthought with a small, deep-set
window high up in the wall opposite the door. The room was furnished in
the old-fashioned style of the room opposite, though more sparsely. But
Marsland and the girl were astonished to see a man sitting motionless
in a large arm-chair at the far end of the room. His head had fallen
forward on his breast as though in slumber, concealing the lower part
of his face.

"By heavens, this is extraordinary," said Marsland, in a low hoarse
voice. With a trembling hand he placed the lamp on the large table
which occupied the centre of the room and stood looking at the man.

The girl crept close to Marsland and clutched his arm.

"It is Frank Lumsden," she whispered quickly. "Do you think there is
anything wrong with him? Why doesn't he speak to us?"

"Because he is dead," he answered swiftly.

"Dead!" she exclaimed, in an hysterical tone. "What makes you think so?
He may be only in a fit. Oh, what shall we do?"

Marsland pushed her aside and with a firm step walked to the chair on
which the motionless figure sat. He touched with his fingers the left
hand which rested on the arm of the chair, and turned quickly.

"He is quite dead," he said slowly. "He is beyond all help in this
world."

"Dead?" she repeated, retreating to the far end of the table and
clasping her trembling hands together. "What a dreadful lonely death."

He was deep in thought and did not respond to her words.

"As we have discovered the body we must inform the police," he said at
length.

"I did not know he was ill," she said, in a soft whisper. "He must have
died suddenly."

Marsland turned on her a searching questioning look. Her sympathy
had conquered her vague fears of the presence of death, and she
hesitatingly approached the body. Something on the table near the lamp
attracted her attention. It was an open pocket-book and beside it were
some papers which had evidently been removed from it.

"What does this mean?" she cried. "Some one has been here."

"It is extraordinary," said Marsland.

He stood between her and the arm-chair so as to hide the dead body from
her. She stepped aside as if to seek in the appearance of the dead man
an explanation of the rifled pocket-book.

"Don't!" he said quickly, as he grasped her by the arm. "Do not touch
it."

His desire to save her from a shock awoke her feminine intuition.

"You mean he has been murdered?" she whispered, in a voice of dismay.




CHAPTER II


SHE hurried from the room in terror. Marsland remained a few minutes
examining the papers that had been taken from the pocket-book.

With the lamp in his hand he was compelled to descend cautiously,
and when he reached the foot of the staircase the girl had left the
house. He extinguished the lamp he was carrying, relit the lantern, and
stepped outside. The lantern showed him the girl waiting for him some
distance down the path.

"Oh, let us leave this dreadful house," she cried as he approached.
"Please take me out of it. I am not frightened of the storm--now."

"I will take you wherever you wish to go," he said gently. "Will you
tell me where you live? I will accompany you home."

"You are very good," she said gratefully. "I live at Ashlingsea."

"That is the little fishing village at the end of the cliff road, is it
not?" he said inquiringly. "I am staying at Staveley, but I have not
been there long. Come, I will take you home, and then I will inform the
police about--this tragic discovery."

"There is a police station at Ashlingsea," she said, in a low voice.

He explained to her that he wanted to look after the comfort of his
horse before he accompanied her home, as it would be necessary to leave
the animal at the farm until the following day. She murmured a faint
acquiescence, and when they reached the storehouse she took the lantern
from him without speaking, and held it up to give him light while he
made his horse comfortable for the night.

They then set out for Ashlingsea. The violence of the storm had passed,
but the wind occasionally blew in great gusts from the sea, compelling
them to halt in order to stand up against it. The night was still very
black, but at intervals a late moon managed to send a watery beam
through the scudding storm clouds, revealing the pathway of the winding
cliff road, and the turbulent frothing waste of water dashing on the
rocks below. Rain continued to fall in heavy frequent showers, but the
minds of Marsland and his companion were so occupied with what they had
seen in the old farm-house that they were scarcely conscious of the
discomfort of getting wet.

The girl was so unnerved by the discovery of the dead body that she
was glad to avail herself of the protection and support of Marsland's
arm. Several times as she thought she saw a human form in the darkness
of the road, she uttered a cry of alarm and clung to his arm with both
hands. At every step she expected to encounter a maniac who had the
blood of one human creature on his hands and was still swayed by the
impulse to kill.

The reserve she had exhibited in the house had broken down, and she
talked freely in her desire to shut out from her mental vision the
spectacle of the murdered man sitting in the arm-chair.

On the other hand, the discovery of the body had made Marsland
reserved and thoughtful.

He learned from her that her name was Maynard--Elsie Maynard--and that
she lived with her widowed mother. Marsland was quick to gather from
the cultivated accents of her voice that she was a refined and educated
girl. He concluded that Mrs. Maynard must be a lady of some social
standing in the district, and he judged from what he had seen of the
girl's clothes that she was in good circumstances. She remarked that
her mother would be anxious about her, but would doubtless assume she
had sought shelter somewhere, as having lived in Ashlingsea for a long
time she knew everybody in the district.

Marsland thought it strange that she made no reference to the companion
who had accompanied her to the farm. If no one accompanied her, how
was it that on opening the door to him she had greeted him as some
one whom she had been expecting? She seemed unconscious of the need
of enlightening him on this point. Her thoughts centred round the
dead man to such an extent that her conversation related chiefly to
him. Half-unconsciously she revealed that she knew him well, but her
acquaintance with him seemed to be largely based on the circumstance
that the dead man had been acquainted with a friend of her family: a
soldier of the new army, who lived at Staveley.

She had told Marsland that the name of the murdered man was Frank
Lumsden, but she did not mention the name of the soldier at Staveley.
Lumsden had served in France as a private, but had returned wounded and
had been invalided out of the army. He had been captured by the Germans
during a night attack, had been shot through the palm of his right
hand to prevent him using a rifle again, and had been left behind when
the Germans were forced to retreat from the village they had captured.
After being invalided out of the Army he had returned home to live in
the old farm-house--Cliff Farm it was called--which had been left to
him by his grandfather, who had died while the young man was in France.
The old man had lived in a state of terror during the last few months
of his life, as he was convinced that the Germans were going to invade
England, destroy everything, and murder the population as they had done
in Belgium. He ceased to farm his land, he dismissed his men, and shut
himself up in his house.

His housekeeper, Mrs. Thorpe, who had been in his service for thirty
years, refused to leave him, and insisted on remaining to look after
him. When he died as the result of injuries received in falling
downstairs, it was found that he had left most of his property to his
grandson, Frank, but he had also left legacies to Mrs. Thorpe and two
of the men who had been in his employ for a generation. But these
legacies had not been paid because there was no money with which to
pay them. Soon after the outbreak of the war the old man had drawn all
his money out of the bank and had realized all his investments. It was
thought that he had done this because of his fear of a German invasion.

What he had done with the money no one knew. Most people thought he
had buried it for safety, intending to dig it up when the war was over.
There was a rumour that he had buried it on the farm. Another rumour
declared that he had buried it in the sands at the foot of the cliffs,
for towards the end of his life he was often seen walking alone on the
sands. In his younger days he had combined fishing with farming, and
there was still a boat in the old boat-house near the cliffs. Several
people tried digging in likely places in the sands after his death, but
they did not find any trace of the money. Other people said that Frank
Lumsden knew where the money was hidden--that his grandfather had left
a plan explaining where he had buried it.

"What about the piece of paper with the mysterious plan on it which we
found on the staircase?" said Marsland. "Do you think that had anything
to do with the hidden money?"

"I never thought of that," she said. "Perhaps it had."

"We left it on the table in the room downstairs," he said. "I think
we ought to go back for it, as it may have something to do with the
murder."

"Don't go back," she said. "I could not bear to go back. The paper will
be there when the police go. No one will go there in the meantime, so
it will be quite safe."

"But you remember that his pocket-book had been rifled," he said, as he
halted to discuss the question of returning. "May not that plan have
been taken from his pocket-book after he was dead?"

"But in that case how did it come on the staircase?"

"It was dropped there by the man who stole it from the pocket-book."

"He will be too frightened to go back for it," she declared
confidently. "He would be afraid of being caught."

"But he may have been in the house while we were there," he replied.
"We did not solve the mystery of the crash we heard when we were in the
room upstairs."

"You said at the time it was possibly caused by the wind upsetting
something."

He was amused at the inconsequence of the line of reasoning she adopted
in order to prevent him going back for the plan.

"At the time we did not know there was a dead body upstairs," he said.

"Do you think the murderer was in the house while we were there?" she
asked.

"It is impossible to say definitely. My own impression now is that some
one was in the house--that the crash we heard was not caused by the
wind."

"Then he must have been there while I was sitting downstairs before you
came," she said, with a shiver at the thought of the danger that was
past.

"Yes," he answered. "The fact that you had a candle alight kept him
upstairs. He was afraid of discovery. When we went upstairs to the
first floor he must have retreated to the second floor--the top story."

She remained deep in thought for a few moments.

"I am glad he did not come down," she said at length. "I am glad I did
not see who it was."

Again Marsland was reminded of the way in which she had greeted him
at the door. Could it be that, instead of having gone to the farm for
shelter with a companion, she had gone there to meet some one, and that
unknown to her the person she was to meet had reached the house before
her and had remained hidden upstairs?

"Did you close the front door when we left?" she asked.

"Yes. I slammed it and I heard the bolt catch. Why do you ask?"

"There is something I want to ask you," she said, at length.

"What is it?"

"I want you to promise if you can that you will not tell the police
that I was at Cliff Farm to-night; I want you to promise that you will
not tell any one."

"Do you think it--wise?" he asked, after a pause in which he gave
consideration to the request.

"I do not want to be mixed up in it in any way," she explained. "The
tragedy will give rise to a lot of talk in the place. I would not like
my name to be mixed up in it."

"I quite appreciate that," he said. "And as far as it goes I would be
willing to keep your name out of it. But have you considered what the
effect would be if the police subsequently discovered that you had been
there? That would give rise to greater talk--to talk of a still more
objectionable kind."

"Yes; but how are they to discover that I was there unless you tell
them?" she asked.

He laughed softly.

"They have to try to solve a more difficult problem than that without
any one to tell them the solution," he said. "They have to try to find
out who killed this man Lumsden--and why he was killed. There will be
two or three detectives making all sorts of inquiries. One of them
might alight accidentally on the fact that you, like myself, had taken
shelter there in the storm."

She took refuge in the privilege of her sex to place a man in the wrong
by misinterpreting his motives.

"Of course, if you do not wish to do it, there is no reason why you
should." She removed her hand from his arm.

He pulled her up with a sharpness which left on her mind the impression
that he was a man who knew his own mind.

"Please understand that I am anxious to do the best I can for you
without being absurdly quixotic about it. I am quite willing to keep
your name out of it in the way you ask, but I am anxious that you
should first realize the danger of the course you suggest. It seems
to me that, in order to avoid the unpleasantness of allowing it to be
publicly known that you shared with me the discovery of this tragedy,
you are courting the graver danger which would attach to the subsequent
difficulty of offering a simple and satisfactory explanation to the
police of why you wanted to keep your share in the discovery an
absolute secret. And you must remember that your explanation to me of
how you came to the farm is rather vague. It is true that you said
you went there for shelter from the storm. But you have not explained
how you got into the house, and from the way you spoke to me when you
opened the door it is obvious that you expected to see some one else
who was not a stranger."

She came to a halt in the road in order to put a direct question to him.

"Do you think that I had anything to do with this dreadful murder? Do
you think that is the reason I asked you to keep my name out of it?"

"I am quite sure that you had nothing whatever to do with the
tragedy--that the discovery of the man's dead body was as great a
surprise to you as it was to me."

"Thank you," she said. The emphasis of his declaration imparted a
quiver to her expression of gratitude. "You are quite right about my
expecting to see some one else when I opened the door," she said. "I
expected to see Mr. Lumsden."

"Oh, I beg your pardon. I never thought of that." He flushed at the way
in which her simple explanation had convicted him of having harboured
unjust suspicions against her.

"I went to the farm to see him--I had a message for him," she
continued, with seeming candour. "The storm came on just before I
reached the house. I knocked, but no one came, and then I noticed the
key was in the lock on the outside of the door. Naturally I thought Mr.
Lumsden had left it there--that when he saw the storm he had gone to
the stable or cowshed to attend to a horse or a cow. I went inside the
house, expecting he would be back every moment. When I heard your knock
I thought it was he."

"I am afraid you must think me a dreadful boor," he said. "I apologize
most humbly."

She replied with a breadth of view that in its contrast with his
ungenerous suspicions added to his embarrassment.

"No, you were quite right," she said. "As I asked you to keep my name
out of it--as I virtually asked you to show blind trust in me--you were
at least entitled to the fullest explanation of how I came to be there."

"And I hope you quite understand that I do trust you absolutely," he
said. "I know as well as it is possible to know anything in this world
that you were not connected in the remotest way with the death of this
man."

Having been lifted out of the atmosphere of suspicion, she felt she
could safely enter it again.

"I was not quite candid with you when I asked you to keep me out of the
dreadful tragedy because of the way I would be talked about," she said,
placing a penitent and appealing hand on his arm. "There are other
reasons--one other reason at least--why I do not want it known I was at
Cliff Farm to-night."

He was prepared to shield her if she was prepared to take the risk of
being shielded.

"That alters the case," he said. "My reluctance to keep your name out
of it arose from the fear that you did not realize the risk you would
run."

"I realize it," she said. "And I wish to thank you for pointing it out
so clearly. But it is a risk I must take."

"In that case you can rely on me."

"You will keep my name out of it?" she asked.

"I will tell no one," he replied.




CHAPTER III


"IT seems to me as if the storm is abating," said Sir George Granville
to his week-end guest.

He moved a piece on the chess-board and then got up from his chair and
went to the window to listen to the rain on the glass.

His guest was so intent on the chess-board that he did not reply. Sir
George Granville remained at the window, his attention divided between
watching for his opponent's next move and listening to the storm.

Sir George's opponent was a young man; that is to say, he was under
forty. He was evidently tall, and his well-cut clothes indicated that
he possessed the well-built frame which is the natural heritage of most
young Englishmen of good class. But his clear-cut, clean-shaven face
suggested that its owner was a man of unusual personality and force
of character. It was a remarkable face which would have puzzled the
student in physiognomy. The upper portion was purely intellectual in
type, the forehead broad, and the head well-shaped, but the dark eyes,
with a touch of dreaminess and sadness in their depths, contrasted
strangely with the energy and determination indicated by the firm mouth
and heavy lower jaw.

The guest moved a piece and then looked at his host.

"You are not yourself to-night, Sir George," he said. "I think we had
better finish this game some other time, or cancel it."

Sir George walked over to the table and looked at the position on the
chess-board.

"Perhaps it would be better to cancel it," he said, "though it is
generous on your part to offer to do so, with a piece to the good and
the threatening development of your pawns on the queen's side. But I
am off my game to-night. I am too worried about that nephew of mine to
give you a good game."

"It is a bad night to be out," said the guest. "But surely he would
find shelter somewhere in the downs."

"He may have met with an accident. He must have seen this storm coming.
He should have been home hours ago in any case."

"Putting aside the possibility of an accident, the fact that he hasn't
turned up in the storm indicates that he has found shelter," said the
guest. "He is waiting until the storm is over."

"But on the downs there are so few places where one can obtain shelter
except at a shepherd's cottage."

Sir George sat down in an arm-chair near the fire and invited his guest
to take the chair on the other side. The room they were in was a large
one, expensively furnished in black oak. The small chess-table with
the chess-board and men had been placed near the large table in the
centre of the room for the benefit of the light, but the autumn night
was chilly, and the fire comfortable, and an open box of cigars and
spirit-stand close by enhanced the appearance of indoor comfort. After
his guest had declined a drink, Sir George mixed himself a whisky and
soda and settled himself in an easy chair. His guest lit a cigar.

They had been seated in front of the fire but a few minutes when the
sound of the telephone bell was heard in the hall. Sir George jumped to
his feet with an alacrity that was surprising in a man of his weighty
figure.

"Perhaps that is Harry," he said to his guest as he hurried into the
hall.

The guest lit another cigar and leaned back in his chair as he awaited
the return of his host. The length of time Sir George was at the
telephone would indicate to some extent the nature of the conversation.
An absence of over a minute would suggest good news, and that his host
was desirous of obtaining the full measure of it. To the surprise of
the guest, five minutes elapsed without any sign of the return of his
host. That the telephone conversation should have lasted so long seemed
improbable.

The guest, with a delicate regard for what was due to a host, tried
to keep his active mind from speculating on the nature of the news by
telephone that was keeping Sir George away. He got up to examine the
paintings on the wall, but found little in them to claim his attention.
Nearly a quarter of an hour had elapsed since the telephone bell had
rung. With a smile the guest returned to his chair. He had alighted on
a solution of his host's long absence: Sir George had received good
news and had gone upstairs to announce it to his wife.

Lady Granville was the second wife of Sir George, and was many years
his junior. The baronet was sixty-four, and in spite of the fact that
he was an experienced man of the world, whose wealth enabled him to get
his own way, he was easily managed by his beautiful young wife.

Sir George, with a passion for chess and a predilection for a quiet
life, had at the instance of his wife, taken a big house on the front
at the fashionable resort of Staveley and had plunged into its social
gaieties. That afternoon he had revolted to the extent of excusing
himself from accompanying her to a garden fête in aid of the funds
of the Red Cross by declaring that he must stay at home to welcome
his guest, who was to motor down from London. Lady Granville had gone
unaccompanied to the fête, and on her return home had adopted the
wifely revenge of retiring to rest early, on the grounds that she had a
severe headache.

When Sir George returned to his guest he was in a happy state of mind.

"It was he, Crewe," he exclaimed.

"And nothing wrong?" asked Crewe.

"No, nothing wrong with him," was the reply. "But he has had the most
extraordinary adventure--gruesome, in fact."

"Gruesome?" The tone in which Crewe repeated the word showed that his
interest had been aroused.

"Well, you might not call it gruesome, Crewe, as you have had so much
to do with gruesome tragedies, but the fact of the matter is the boy
seems to have discovered a murder."

"A murder?"

"That is how the police look at it, he says. Harry rang me up from
the police station at Ashlingsea--a fishing village about twelve miles
from here along the coast. His horse went lame and he was caught in the
storm. He came across an old farm-house and went there for shelter, but
he found the house was empty. He got in somehow, and on going upstairs
found the dead body of a young man--the owner of the farm. Lumsden the
owner's name is; quite a boy, that is to say, something under thirty.
Cliff Farm is the name of the place. I know it well--I have often
passed it while out motoring."

"How was he killed--did your nephew say?"

"Shot."

"The dead body was there and the house empty," said Crewe, in a
meditative voice. "That looks as if the police will not have much
difficulty in picking up the scent. The fact that he would be alone
could not have been known to many people."

"I suppose not. I do not profess to be quite clear about everything
Harry told me because I was so pleased to hear his voice and so
astonished at his adventure. I went straight upstairs and told my wife.
I know she was anxious about Harry though she said nothing before
retiring--that is her way. Of course I only told her that Harry was
safe. I said nothing about a murder because it would upset her. But, as
I was saying, this young Lumsden, according to what Harry has learned
from the police sergeant at Ashlingsea, lived alone. He didn't farm his
land: he was a bit of a recluse."

"How far away is his farm?" asked Crewe.

"About nine or ten miles from here. What about motoring over in the
morning?"

"Can we pick up your nephew? I should like to hear his account at first
hand."

"We can go over to Ashlingsea first and bring him back to the farm
with us. He is staying at an inn there, but I can get the Ashlingsea
police station, from where Harry rang up, to let him know that we will
be over for him in the car in the morning."

Crewe nodded. Sir George mixed himself another whisky and soda, and lit
a cigar. Crewe also lit a cigar, and then they settled themselves in
front of the fire for a chat before retiring.

The tie between the great crime investigator and his host was
chess. Sir George Granville had been in the front rank of English
chess-players when Crewe disappointed the chess world by suddenly
retiring from match chess, at the outset of a brilliant career, in
order to devote his wonderful gifts of intuition and insight to crime
detection. His intellect was too vigorous and active to be satisfied
with the sedate triumphs of chess; his restless temperament and vital
force needed a wider and more vigorous scope.

But, despite the wide fame he had won as a criminologist, chess
enthusiasts still shook their heads when his name was mentioned, as
people are wont to do when they hear the name of a man of brilliant
parts who has not made the most of his life. It was nothing to them
that Crewe had achieved fame in the rôle he had chosen for himself;
that the press frequently praised him as a public benefactor who had
brought to justice many dangerous criminals who would have escaped
punishment but for his subtle skill. These were vain triumphs for a man
who had beaten Turgieff and the young South American champion, and had
seemed destined to bring the world's championship to England.

The chess tie between Crewe and Sir George Granville had long ago
strengthened into mutual regard. Sir George liked and admired Crewe,
though he did not understand the depths of his character. Crewe
respected the baronet for the shrewd ability with which he controlled
his large interests, and the fact that he had never allowed his career
as a business man to warp the kindliness of his nature or interfere
with the natural generosity of his disposition.

They talked of various things: of chess, at first, as is inevitable
with two chess-players. Sir George pulled up the chess-table and reset
the abandoned game in order to see if there was not some defence to
Black's position at the stage when the game was abandoned--the baronet
had played with the black pieces. He came to the conclusion that there
wasn't, and congratulated Crewe on his attack.

"Do you know, I cannot help regretting sometimes that you have
practically given up the game," he added, as he placed the ivory
chess-men one by one in the box. "It is a long while since England has
had a really great chess-player."

"Oh, I don't know," replied Crewe. "There are more things in life than
chess."

"Some people do not think so," replied Sir George, with a smile. "Your
old opponent Merton was telling me at the club the other night that
he would consider his life had been well spent if he could but find a
sound answer to that new opening of Talsker's."

"That is proof that chess gets hold of one too much," replied Crewe,
with an answering smile.

"Still, you might have been champion of England," pursued Sir George
meditatively.

Crewe shrugged his shoulders slightly.

"One cannot have it both ways," he said.

"You prefer crime investigation to chess?" continued Sir George
inquiringly.

"In some ways--yes. Both have their fascination, but in chess the
human element is lacking. It is true you have an opponent, but he is
not like your hidden opponent in crime. When your hidden opponent
has intelligence, then the game is wonderful--while it lasts. But
intelligence in crime is as rare as it is in every other walk of life.
Most crimes are like chess problems--once you find the key-move,
the rest is easy. The really perfect crime mystery is as rare as a
perfect chess problem. As a rule, the machinery of the human brain is
not delicately adjusted enough, or sufficiently complex, to devise a
problem both complex and subtle in crime--or in chess."

Sir George did not speak. It was so rarely that Crewe could be induced
to speak of his experiences in crime investigation that he did not wish
to check him by interrupting. But Crewe showed no sign of continuing.
He sighed slightly, threw his half-smoked cigar into the fire, produced
a large brierwood pipe with an amber mouthpiece, and slowly filled it,
with his eyes fixed on the flames.

They remained thus for some moments in silence, though Sir George kept
glancing from time to time at his companion. Several times the baronet
was on the verge of speaking, but checked himself. At length Crewe,
without looking away from the fire, said:

"You would like to ask me to go into this case your nephew has
discovered to-night, but you do not think it would be quite courteous
on your part to do so, because I am your guest."

"Well, yes, I _was_ thinking that, though I don't know how you guessed
it," said Sir George, in some surprise. "For more reasons than one I am
worried about my nephew getting mixed up with this tragedy."

"Tell me why," said Crewe sympathetically, turning away from the fire
and looking at his host.

It was past one o'clock when Crewe retired to his room. The object of
his visit to Sir George Granville had been to obtain a rest after some
weeks of investigation into the Malmesbury case, as the newspapers
called it; his investigation having resulted in the capture of the
elusive Malmesbury who had swindled the insurance companies out of
£20,000 by arranging his own death and burial.

Crewe smiled to himself once or twice as he slowly undressed. Instead
of entering into a quiet week-end he found that within a few hours
of his arrival he was on the threshold of another investigation. He
had not met his host's nephew, Harry Marsland, as the young man had
left for his ride on the downs before Crewe reached the house. But
from what Sir George had told him Crewe felt attracted to the young
man. Marsland, who was the only son of Sir George's only sister, had
purchased a junior partnership in a firm of consulting engineers
shortly after attending his majority, but as soon as the war broke out
he offered his services and obtained a commission.

He had seen over six months' fighting before being wounded by a shell.
The long strain of warfare, the shock of the explosion and the wounds
he had received in the head from shell splinters made his recovery
very slow. He had been in hospital for three months, and though now
convalescent he would never be fit for service again and had been
invalided out of the army. There had been a time in hospital when his
life hung by a thread. During days and nights of delirium his mind had
been haunted by the scenes of horror he had witnessed at the front. He
had seen hundreds of men go through the agonies of death from terrible
wounds and gas torture; he had seen human forms blown to pieces, and
the men falling in hundreds from machine-gun fire as they charged the
German trenches.

The hospital doctors had hinted to Sir George of the possibility of
his nephew's reason being affected by what he had gone through, but
fortunately the young man was spared this calamity. Sir George had been
warned not to let his nephew talk about the war and to keep his mind
occupied with more cheerful subjects of conversation. In pursuance of
these instructions no reference was made to the war in young Marsland's
presence, and his rank as captain was studiously forgotten.

It was on the ground of his nephew's health and the danger that lay
in mental worry that Sir George Granville begged Crewe, before he
retired, to promise to investigate the crime at Cliff Farm if it turned
out to be a case which was likely to baffle the police and result in
protracted worry to those innocently brought into it. Crewe recognized
the force of the appeal and had promised to give some time to the
case if the circumstances seemed to demand it. He reserved his final
decision until after the visit to Cliff Farm, which Sir George had
arranged to make in the morning.

Anxiety on his nephew's behalf got Sir George out of bed early, and
when Crewe reached the breakfast-room he found his host waiting for
him. The heartiness with which he greeted Crewe seemed to embody some
relief after a strain on patience.

"I rang up Ashlingsea police station half an hour ago and asked them
to make some inquiries about Harry," said Sir George. "He doesn't seem
to be much the worse for his night's experience. At all events, the
landlady sent word back that he had gone out for a swim."

"I am very glad to hear that he is all right," said Crewe.

"They have given him our message," continued Sir George, "so he will be
waiting for us."

"It ought not to take us much more than half an hour to run over. Is
the road good?"

"Fairly good. We will get away as soon as we have finished breakfast.
I told my wife not to expect us back until after lunch. That will give
you time to look over the farm-house where the man was murdered."

Crewe smiled slightly at his host's idea that it would not take him
long to reconstruct the crime.

"Are we to keep the object of our journey a secret from Lady Granville
when we return?" he asked.

"Well, no. The fact of the matter is that I told her all about it this
morning. It was best to do so. She will be of valuable assistance in
looking after Harry if he has been upset by his experiences of last
night."

They finished breakfast quickly, and Sir George got up from his chair.

"I told Harris to have the car ready," he said. "It will be waiting for
us."

A few minutes later they were in the car and were going along the front
at a good rate. When the houses became scattered, the road left the
outline of the shore, made a detour round some sand dunes about a mile
from Staveley, and then stretched like a white ribbon along the cliffs,
between the downs and the sea, to the distant village of Ashlingsea.
The road justified Sir George's description as fairly good, but
there were places where it was very narrow, the width being scarcely
sufficient to allow one vehicle to pass another. On the side where the
road joined the downs there was a ditch, and in some places the water
had collected and formed a pool.

"What is this?" exclaimed Sir George, as he pointed to an object at the
side of the road some distance away.

The object was a motor-car, which had struck the ditch and overturned.
Part of the car was lying on the downs. One of the front wheels had
been wrenched out of position. To Crewe's surprise the chauffeur drove
past without more than a sidelong glance at the wreck.

"Stop!" said Crewe. "We must have a look at this."

"Yes, we may as well have a look at it," said Sir George, as the car
stopped. "But it is only one of Gosford's old cars. He has a garage at
Staveley and has three or four old cars which he lets out on hire. They
are always coming to grief. Quite a common thing to find them stuck up
and refusing to budge. The occupants have to get out and walk."

Crewe got out of the car to inspect the wreck, but Sir George did not
follow him. He was content to look on from his seat in the car. With
some impatience he watched Crewe, as the detective examined the car
first on one side and then the other. Crewe went back along the road
for about forty yards and examined the track the wheels had made in
running off the road and striking the ditch. Then he stood back a few
yards, and, going down on his knees, examined the grass. He put his
shoulder underneath the upturned side of the car to judge the weight of
the vehicle.

"I believe we could turn it over," he called out to Sir George. "It is
not very heavy."

"Get out, Harris, and see what you can do," said Sir George.

He sat and watched Crewe and Harris exerting their strength to lift the
car. They were not successful in moving it.

"Do you mind, Sir George?" said Crewe persuasively.

Sir George did mind, but convention demanded that he should pretend to
his guest that he did not.

"Gosford won't thank us," was the length of the protest he offered. "We
may give the thing a bump that will bring it to pieces."

"I do not want to shove it right over," explained Crewe. "If we can
get it on its side so that I can have a look at it inside I will be
satisfied."

Sir George's contribution to the task turned the scale. Slowly the
car was raised until it rested on its right side. Crewe bent down and
inspected the inside of the car and the driver's seat.

"Thanks," he said. "I've got all I want."

"And what is that you wanted?" demanded Sir George, in astonishment.

"Several things," said Crewe. "I wanted to get an idea of when the
accident took place."

"How on earth could you expect to tell that?" asked Sir George.

"By the state of the car--outside and inside. The way the mud is
splashed on the outside indicates that the car was out in last night's
storm. The wet state of the cushions inside showed that rain had fallen
on them--they must have got wet before the car capsized."

"Extremely interesting," said Sir George. "I'd never have thought of
these things. Perhaps you can tell how many people were in the car at
the time."

"No. All I can say is that one of them was injured, but not very
seriously, as far as I can make out."

"And how do you make that out?" asked Sir George.

"By the blood-stains on the grass at the side of the car."




CHAPTER IV


POLICE-SERGEANT WESTAWAY sat in the sitting-room of Cliff Farm
preparing an official report, with the assistance of his subordinate,
Police-Constable Heather, whose help consisted in cordially agreeing
with his superior on any point on which the sergeant condescended to
ask his advice.

The constable was a short, florid-face, bullet-headed young man, and
he whistled cheerfully as he explored the old farm-house. His superior
officer was elderly and sallow, with hollow dark eyes, a long black
beard streaked with grey, and a saturnine expression, which was the
outward manifestation of a pessimistic disposition and a disordered
liver.

Sergeant Westaway looked like a man who found life a miserable
business. A quarter of a century spent in a dull round of official
duties in the fishing village of Ashlingsea, as guardian of the morals
of its eight hundred inhabitants, had deepened his natural bent towards
pessimism and dyspepsia. He felt himself qualified to adorn a much
higher official post, but he forebore to air his grievance in public
because he thought the people with whom his lot was cast were not worth
wasting speech upon. By his aloofness and taciturnity he had acquired a
local reputation for wisdom, which his mental gifts scarcely warranted.

"Heather," he said, pausing in his writing and glancing up irritably
as his subordinate entered the room, "do not make that noise."

"What noise, sergeant?" asked Constable Heather, who gathered his
impressions slowly.

"That whistling. It disturbs me. Besides, there is a dead man in the
house."

"All right, sergeant, I forgot all about him." Constable Heather
stopped in the middle of a lively stave, sat down on a chair, got up
again, and went out of the room with a heavy tread.

Sergeant Westaway returned to his official report with a worried
expression on his gaunt face. He was a country police officer with
no previous experience of murders, and twenty-five years' official
vegetation in Ashlingsea, with nothing more serious in the way of crime
to handle than occasional outbreaks of drunkenness or an odd case of
petty larceny, had made him rusty in official procedure, and fearful of
violating the written and unwritten laws of departmental red tape. He
wrote and erased and rewrote, occasionally laying down his pen to gaze
out of the open window for inspiration.

It was a beautiful day in early autumn. The violent storm of the
previous night had left but few traces of its visit. The sun was
shining in a clear blue sky, and the notes of a skylark singing
joyously high above the meadow in front of the farm floated in through
the open window. The winding cliff road was white and clean after the
heavy rain, and the sea was once more clear and green, with little
white-flecked waves dancing and sparkling in the sunshine.

Sergeant Westaway, gloomily glancing out at this pleasing prospect,
saw two men entering the farm from the road. They had been cycling, and
were now pushing their machines up the gravel-path to the front door.
One of them was in police uniform, and the other was a young man about
thirty years of age, clad in cycling tweeds and knickerbockers, with a
tweed cap on the back of his curly head. He had blue eyes and a snub
nose, and a cigarette dangled from his lower lip. He was a stranger
to Sergeant Westaway, but that acute official had no hesitation in
placing him as a detective from Scotland Yard. To the eye of pessimism
he looked like the sort of man that Scotland Yard would send to assist
the country police. His companion in uniform was Detective-Inspector
Payne, of the County police headquarters at Lewes, and was well known
to Sergeant Westaway. The latter had no difficulty in arriving at the
conclusion that the County Commissioner of Police, having several other
mysterious crimes to occupy the limited number of detectives at his
disposal, had asked for the assistance of Scotland Yard in unravelling
the murder at Cliff Farm. Sergeant Westaway knew what this would mean
to him. He would have a great deal to do In coaching the Scotland Yard
man regarding local conditions, but would get none of the credit of
sheeting home the crime to the murderer. The Scotland Yard man would
see to that.

"How are you, Westaway?" exclaimed Inspector Payne, as he stood his
bicycle against the wall of the house near the front door. "What do
you mean by giving us a murder when we've got our hands full? We've
burglaries in half a dozen towns, a murder at Denham, two unidentified
bodies washed ashore in a boat at Hemsley, and the disappearance from
Lewes of a well-known solicitor who is wanted for embezzling trust
funds. Let me introduce you to Detective Gillett, of Scotland Yard. I'm
turning the investigation of this murder of yours over to him. You will
give him all the assistance he wants."

"Yes, sir," replied Sergeant Westaway.

"Glad to meet you, Westaway," said Detective Gillett, as he shook hands
with the Sergeant.

Sergeant Westaway had come to the door to meet the new-comers, and he
now led the way back to the room where he had been preparing his report.

Detective Gillett took up a position by the open window, and sniffed
gratefully at the soft air.

"Fine view, here," he said, waving his hand in the direction of the
cliff road and open bay. "Fine, bracin' air--sea--country--birds--and
all that sort of thing. You chaps in the country have all the best of
it--the simple life, and no hustle or bustle."

Sergeant Westaway looked darkly at the speaker as though he suspected
him of a desire to rob him of the grievance he had brooded over in
secret for twenty-five years.

"It's dull enough," he said ungraciously.

"But the air, man, the air!" said the London detective, inhaling great
gulps of oxygen as he spoke. "It's exhilarating; it's glorious! Why, it
should keep you going until you reach a hundred."

"Too salt," commented Sergeant Westaway curtly.

"The more salt in it the longer it will preserve you," said Gillett.
"What a glorious day it is."

"The day is right enough," said Westaway. "But to-morrow will be
different."

"Westaway doesn't like to be enthusiastic about this locality for fear
we will shift him somewhere else," said Inspector Payne. "However, let
us get to business. I must be on my way back to Lewes in an hour."

Sergeant Westaway coughed in order to clear his throat, and then began
his narrative in a loud official voice:

"At five minutes past nine last night a gentleman named Marsland came
to the police station. I was in my office at the time, preparing a
report. He told me that he had found the dead body of a man in this
house."

"Who is this Marsland?" asked Inspector Payne. "Does he live in the
district?"

"He does not," replied the sergeant. "He lives at Staveley. That is to
say, he lives in London, but he is staying at Staveley. He is staying
there with his uncle, Sir George Granville."

"I know Sir George," said the inspector. "And so this young gentleman
who discovered the body is his nephew. How old is he?"

"About twenty-eight, I should say."

"What sort of young man is he? How did he impress you?"

"He impressed me as being an honest straightforward young gentleman.
He gave me a very clear statement of who he was and how he came to call
in at this farm last night. Nevertheless, I took the precaution of
telephoning to Inspector Murchison at Staveley and asking him to have
inquiries made. The inspector's report coincides with what Mr. Marsland
told me. He has been in ill-health and came down from London to
Staveley to recuperate. He has been there five days. Yesterday he left
Staveley for a ride on the downs. He got lost and was caught in the
storm which came up shortly after dusk. His horse went lame, and seeing
this house he came here for shelter. The horse is in the stable now.
There was no light in the house, and when he went to the front door
to knock he found it open. He struck a match and lit a candle which
was on the hallstand. He could see no one about. Then he lit a lamp in
this room and sat down to wait until the storm was over. He was sitting
here for some time listening to the rain when suddenly he heard a crash
above. He took the lamp and made his way upstairs. In a sitting-room
on the first floor he found the dead body of a man in an arm-chair. At
first he thought the man had died a natural death, but on inspecting
the body he found that the man had been shot through the body. As the
storm was abating, Mr. Marsland made his way down to Ashlingsea and
reported his discovery to me."

"And what did you do?" asked Inspector Payne, in an authoritative voice.

"I closed the station and in company with Mr. Marsland I knocked up
Police-Constable Heather. Then the three of us came here. I found the
body as Mr. Marsland had described. I identified the body as that of
Frank Lumsden, the owner of this farm. Leaving Heather in charge of
it, I returned to Ashlingsea accompanied by Mr. Marsland, and reported
the matter by telephone to headquarters at Lewes, as you are aware,
inspector. This morning I returned here to make a minute inspection of
the scene of the crime and to prepare my report."

"Is the body upstairs now?" asked Detective Gillett.

"It has been left exactly as it was found. I gave Heather orders that
he was not to touch it."

"What sort of a man was this Lumsden?" asked Inspector Payne. "Had he
any enemies?"

"He may have," replied the cautious sergeant. "There are some who bore
him no good will."

"Why was that?"

"Because they thought he hadn't acted rightly by them. He was the
executor of his grandfather's will, but he didn't pay the legacies his
grandfather left. He said there was no money. His grandfather drew all
his money out of the bank when the war broke out, and no one was ever
able to find where he hid it. But there are some who say Frank Lumsden
found it and stuck to it all."

"This is interesting," said Detective Gillett. "We must go into it
thoroughly later on."

"And what makes it more interesting is that a sort of plan showing
where the money was hidden has disappeared," continued Sergeant
Westaway. "It disappeared after Lumsden was murdered. Mr. Marsland told
me that he found it when he was going upstairs to find out the cause
of the crash he heard. It was lying on the second bottom stair. Mr.
Marsland picked it up and put it on the table with the candle stuck on
top of it. But when we came here this morning it was gone."

"That is strange," commented Inspector Payne. "What was the plan like?
And how does Mr. Marsland know it had anything to do with the missing
money?"

"Of course he doesn't know for certain. But when I happened to tell him
about the murdered man's grandfather and the missing money he called
to mind a strange-looking paper he had picked up. As he described it
to me, it had some figures written in the shape of a circle on it, and
some letters or writing above and below the circle of figures. He did
not scrutinize it very closely when he first found it, for he intended
to examine it later."

"And it disappeared after Mr. Marsland left the farm to go to the
police station?" asked Detective Gillett.

"Showing, to my mind, that the murderer was actually in the house when
Mr. Marsland left," added Sergeant Westaway, with impressive solemnity.
"In all probability the murderer was hiding in the top floor at the
time. I have ascertained that the crash Mr. Marsland heard was caused
by a picture being knocked down and the glass broken. This picture
I found on the stairs leading to the top floor. It used to hang on
the wall near the top of the stairs. My theory is that the murderer,
feeling his way in the dark while Mr. Marsland was in this room,
accidentally knocked it down."

"I take it that Marsland did not go up to the top floor but left the
house after examining the body," remarked Detective Gillett.

"That is so," replied the Sergeant. "He forgot about the crash when he
found the body of a murdered man. His first thought was to communicate
with the police."

"And the murderer, leaving the house after Marsland had gone, found
this plan on the table and took it?" suggested Detective Gillett.

"That is my theory," replied Sergeant Westaway. "I forgot to say,
however, that the plan was probably stolen in the first place from the
murdered man's pocket-book--his pocket-book was found on the table
near him. It had been opened and most of the papers it contained had
been removed. The papers were scattered about the table. The way I see
the crime is this: the murderer had killed his victim, had removed his
pocket-book, and had obtained possession of the plan. He was making his
way downstairs to escape when he saw Marsland in the doorway. In his
alarm he dropped the plan on the stairs and then crept softly upstairs
to the top of the house. After Mr. Marsland left, the murderer came
downstairs again, looked about for the plan, and after finding it then
made off."

"A very ingenious reconstruction, sergeant," said Inspector Payne. "I
shouldn't wonder if it proved to be correct. What do you say, Gillett?"

"Westaway is wasting his time down here," said the young detective.
"We ought to have him at Scotland Yard."




CHAPTER V


SERGEANT WESTAWAY was flattered at the manner in which his theory of
the murder had been received by men who were far more experienced than
himself in investigating crime. His sallow cheeks flushed with pleasure
and his pessimism waned a little. In his determination to place his
hearers in possession of all the facts concerning the crime and the
victim he gave them details regarding Lumsden's mode of life at Cliff
Farm after his discharge from the army, and the gossip that was current
in the district concerning him. While he was dealing with these matters
they heard a motor-car approaching. It stopped outside the gates of the
farmhouse, and the three police officials went to the door to see who
had arrived.

"Why, it's Crewe!" exclaimed Detective Gillett, in a tone of surprise.
"I wonder who has put him on to this?"

"That is Sir George Granville with him--the stout elderly man," said
Inspector Payne.

"The other gentleman is Mr. Marsland," said Sergeant Westaway.

"Which is Crewe and which is Marsland?" asked Inspector Payne.

"The tall one on the left is Crewe," answered Detective Gillett.

As a police official, Inspector Payne was indignant at the idea of
Crewe intruding into the case, but as a man he was delighted at the
opportunity of meeting the famous private detective who had so often
scored over Scotland Yard by unravelling mysteries which had baffled
the experts of the London detective department. Crewe's fame had even
penetrated to Ashlingsea, and Sergeant Westaway studied the private
detective with awed interest as the three occupants of the motor-car
walked up the drive.

Inspector Payne had pictured Crewe as a more striking personality
than the tall young man in tweeds who was accompanying Sir George
Granville and his nephew. The latter was talking earnestly, and Crewe
was listening closely. Inspector Payne had an opportunity of noting the
distinction and character which marked the detective's face in repose:
the clear, clean-cut profile, the quick penetration and observation of
his dark eyes as they took in the exterior of Cliff Farm. He concluded
that Crewe was rather young for the fame he had achieved--certainly
under forty: that he liked his face; that he looked like a gentleman;
and that his tweed suit displayed a better cut than any provincial
tailor had ever achieved.

His companion, Sir George Granville's nephew, was a young man of Saxon
type, fair-haired, blue-eyed, with a clear skin which had been tanned
brown as the result of his war campaigning in France. He was two or
three inches shorter than Crewe, but was well set up and well-built,
and although he did not wear khaki his recent connection with the army
was indicated by his military carriage and bearing.

After the necessary introductions Crewe explained with an air of
modesty that, Sir George Granville's nephew having had the misfortune
to become associated with the tragedy through the discovery of the
body, Sir George, as a public man, had conceived the idea that he ought
to do something towards discovering the author of the crime. That was
how he himself came to be present. He hoped that he would not be in the
way of the police.

"Not at all; not at all," said Inspector Payne, answering for the
County Police. "We'll be glad of your help. And as for anything we can
do for you, Mr. Crewe, you have only to ask."

"That is very kind of you," said Crewe.

"You are just in time," continued Inspector Payne. "Gillett and I have
been here only a few minutes. We were just going upstairs to look at
the body when you arrived."

On their way upstairs Gillett drew attention to some marks on the
margin of the stairs between the carpet on the staircase and the wall.
These marks were irregular in shape, and they looked as if they had
been made by wiping portions of the stairs with a dirty wet cloth. Some
of the stairs bore no mark.

"It seems to me that some one has been wiping up spots of blood on the
stairs," said Inspector Payne, as he examined the marks closely.

On the linoleum covering the landing of the first flight there were
more traces of the kind, the last of them being beside the door of the
room in which the body had been discovered.

The dead man was still in the arm-chair near the window. There was
such a resemblance to life in his stooping posture that the men
entering the room found it difficult at first to realize they were
confronted with the corpse of a man who had been murdered. A ray of
sunlight fell through the narrow window on the bent head, revealing
the curly brown hair and the youthful contour of the neck. The right
arm was slightly extended from the body towards the table near the
arm-chair in which the corpse was seated, as though the murdered man
had been about to pick up the pocket-book which lay on the table.
The pocket-book was open, and the papers which had been in it were
scattered about the table.

Payne, Gillett and Crewe inspected the body closely. Sir George
Granville and Marsland waited a little distance away while the others
conducted their examination. The dead man had been fully dressed when
he was shot. On the left side of his vest was the hole made by the
bullet, and around it was a discoloured patch where the blood, oozing
from the wound, had stained the tweed. There were numerous blood-stains
on the floor near the dead man's feet, and also near the window at the
side of the arm-chair.

"I see that the window is broken," said Inspector Payne, pointing to
one of the panes in the window near the arm-chair.

"By a bullet," said Sergeant Westaway. He pulled down the window blind
and pointed to a hole in it which had evidently been made by a bullet.
"When I came in the blind was down. I pulled it up in order to let in
some light. But the fact that there is a hole in the window blind shows
that the murder was committed at night, when the blind was down. I
should say two shots were fired. The first went through the window, and
the other killed him."

"I think the bullet that killed him has gone through him," said Crewe,
who had moved the body in order to examine the back of it. "It looks as
if he was shot from behind, because the wound in the back is lower down
than the one in front." He pointed to a hole in the back of the coat
where the cloth showed a similar discoloured patch to the one in the
vest.

"It must have been a powerful weapon if the bullet has gone through
him," said Gillett. "That means we shall have no bullet to guide us
as to the calibre of the weapon, unless we can find the one that went
through the window."

"Perhaps there was only one shot fired after all," remarked Inspector
Payne. "The victim may have been standing by the window when he was
shot, and then have staggered to the chair. Otherwise if he were shot
in the back while sitting in the chair the bullet should be embedded in
the chair or wall. But I can see no sign of it."

"Not necessarily," said Gillett. "Look at the position on the
arm-chair. It is possible that the bullet, after going through the man,
went through the window. That would account for the broken pane of
glass."

The pocket-book and the papers it contained were next examined.
Inspector Payne asked Marsland concerning the mysterious plan he had
picked up on the stairs. Marsland borrowed a sheet of paper from the
inspector's large official note-book and drew a rough sketch of the
plan as he remembered it. He explained that as he had lost his glasses
while out in the storm he had not been able to make a close study of
the plan. While he was engaged in reproducing the plan as far as he
remembered it, Sergeant Westaway enlightened Crewe and Sir George
Granville about the theory he had formed that the murderer was in the
house when Marsland discovered the body, and that, after Marsland left,
the murderer made his escape and took from the sitting-room downstairs
the plan he had dropped on the stairs when he heard Marsland in the
house.

"What do you make of this, Mr. Crewe?" asked Inspector Payne, as he
took up the paper on which Marsland had sketched what he recalled
of the plan. "Do you think this was meant to show where the old
grandfather had his money?"

"That is very probable," said Crewe. "But it is not worth while trying
to solve the riddle from a sketch drawn from memory. Get the murderer
and you will probably get the original plan as well."

Sergeant Westaway, in pursuance of his duties as guide, took his
visitors downstairs to the sitting-room for the purpose of showing
them how the window had been forced in order to provide an entrance.
He pointed to a mark on the sash which indicated that a knife had been
used to force back the catch.

This was the room in which Miss Maynard had been sitting when Marsland
had arrived to obtain shelter from the storm. Marsland noticed the
chair beside which she had stood while they were in the room together
before going upstairs to investigate the cause of the crash they had
heard. He gave a start as he saw behind the chair a small tortoiseshell
comb such as ladies sometimes wear to keep their hair up. He stooped
quickly to pick it up, and as he did so he realized that he had
blundered badly. In order to rectify the blunder he made a weak attempt
to hide the comb, but he saw Detective Gillett's eye on him.

"What have we here?" asked the Scotland Yard man genially.

Marsland held out his hand with the comb resting in it.

"A woman in the case," commented Inspector Payne. "That ought to help
to simplify matters."

Marsland bit his lips at the thought of how he had been false to his
promise to Miss Maynard. He had kept her name out of the discovery of
the crime, but he had unwittingly directed attention to the fact that a
woman had only recently been in that room.

The comb was handed to Crewe for examination. It was about three inches
long and was slightly convex in shape. On the outside was a thin strip
of gold mounting. Crewe handed the comb back.

"You sat in this room before going upstairs, Marsland?" he asked,
turning to Sir George's nephew.

"Yes; I was here about a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes."

"Was the window open when you came in? Did you close it?"

"I did not close it, but it must have been closed, as otherwise I would
have noticed it open. It was raining and blowing hard while I was
here." Marsland thought to himself that any information he could give
about the window was useless in view of the fact that Miss Maynard had
been in the room some time before he arrived.

"Was this the room in which you found the lamp that you took upstairs?"
continued Crewe.

"Yes."

"I think you told me that there was no light in the house when you
entered?"

"The place was in darkness. I found a candlestick on the hallstand. I
lit that first and after coming in here I lit the lamp." He had decided
to adhere in his statements to what Miss Maynard had told him she had
done before he arrived.

"Did you notice when you lit the lamp whether the lamp chimney was hot,
warm, or quite cold?" asked Crewe.

"I cannot be certain. I think it was cold, or otherwise I should have
noticed."

"You lit the lamp before you heard the crash which startled you?"

"Yes. I lit it a few moments after I came into the room."

"Any foot-marks outside the window?" said Inspector Payne, thrusting
his head out of the open window. "Yes, there they are, quite plainly,
in the ground. Made by heavy hobnailed boots. We must get plaster
impressions of those, Gillett. They are an important clue."

"I notice, inspector," said Crewe, "that there are no marks of any
kind on the wall-paper beneath the window. One would expect that a man
getting in through this window would touch the wall-paper with one foot
while he was getting through the window, and as it was a wet night
there ought to be some mark on it."

"Not necessarily," replied the inspector. "He may have jumped to the
floor without touching the wall-paper."

"But there do not seem to be any impressions inside the house of these
heavy nailed boots," returned Crewe. "Those impressions beneath the
window show that they were made when the ground was soft from the rain.
Wet muddy boots with nails in the soles ought to leave some traces on
the carpet of this room and on the staircase."

"And what about those marks we saw on the staircase? They show that
some one had been over the staircase with a wet rag."

"To wipe out the traces of those boots?" asked Crewe.

"Why not?"

"Why did the person wearing those boots walk on the uncarpeted part of
the stairs near the wall instead of the carpeted part?"

"Because he knew that it would be easier for him to remove the traces
of his footprints from the wood than from the carpet."

Crewe smiled at the ingenuity displayed by the inspector.

"One more doubt, inspector," he said. "Why did the man who wore those
boots take such care to remove the traces of footprints inside the
house and show so much indifference to the traces he left outside?"

"Because he thought the rain would wash out the footprints outside. And
so it would have done if it had rained until morning. Let us go outside
and have a good look at them."

They went out by the front door and made their way to the window,
taking care to keep clear of the footprints.

"There you are, Mr. Crewe," said Inspector Payne. "There is evidence
that the man got in through the window." He pointed to a spot beneath
the window where a small piece of mortar between the brickwork had been
broken off about fifteen inches above the ground. "And look at those
parallel scratches on the mortar. It looks to me as if they were made
by the nails in a boot."

"Very true," assented Crewe, examining the marks closely.

"Now let us follow the footsteps to see where they start from,"
continued Inspector Payne.

It was no difficult matter to follow the marks of the heavy boots. In
the soft soil, which had formerly been part of a flower-bed, they were
quite distinct. Even on the grass beyond the flower-bed the impressions
were visible, though not so distinctly. Eventually they reached the
gravel-walk which skirted the front of the house, and here the traces
were lost.

"I should say that the boots which made these marks are the ordinary
heavy type worn by farm-hands and fishermen in this locality," said
Crewe.

"No doubt," answered Inspector Payne. "But, though there are some
hundreds of men in this locality who wear the same type of boot,
the number of pairs of boots absolutely the same are small. That is
particularly the case with these heavy nailed boots--the positions of
some of the nails vary. A cast of three or four of the best of these
impressions will narrow down the circle of our investigations. What do
you say, Gillett?"

"It looks to me as if it is going to be a comparatively simple affair."

Inspector Payne turned to Marsland.

"I think you said you found the door open, Mr. Marsland. Do you mean
wide open or partly closed?"

"I found it wide open," replied Marsland. "I thought at the time that
it had not been properly closed and that the wind had blown it open."

"That means that the murderer got in through this window and left by
the door," said Inspector Payne to Detective Gillett. "He left it open
when he fled."

"But what about Westaway's theory that he was in the house when Mr.
Marsland came here?" asked Gillett. "What about the crash Mr. Marsland
heard when the picture fell down? What about the plan of the hidden
money that disappeared after Mr. Marsland left?"

It was plain that Detective Gillett, who had to investigate the crime,
was not in sympathy with Inspector Payne's method of solving difficult
points by ignoring them.

Inspector Payne stroked his chin thoughtfully.

"There are a lot of interesting little points to be cleared up," he
said cheerfully.

"Yes, there are," responded Detective Gillett, "and I've no doubt we
will find more of them as we go along."

It was obvious to Marsland that in keeping silent about Miss Maynard's
presence at Cliff Farm on the night of the storm, and the means by
which she had entered the house, he was placing obstacles in the way of
the elucidation of the tragedy.




CHAPTER VI


FROM the front gate of Cliff Farm the road wound up the hill steeply
and sinuously, following the broken curves of the coastline till it
disappeared in the cutting of the hill three hundred yards from the
house, and reappeared on the other side. As far as could be seen from
the house, the cutting through the hill was the only place where the
road diverged from the cliff.

No other short cut on a large scale had been attempted by the makers of
the road, which, for the most part, skirted the irregular outline of
the bluff and rocky coast until it seemed a mere white thread in the
distant green of the spacious downs which stretched for many miles to
the waters of the Channel.

On the far side of the cutting the downs came fully into view, rolling
back from the edge of the cliffs to a low range of distant wooded
hills, and stretching ahead till they were merged in the town of
Staveley, nearly ten miles away. Staveley's churchspires could be seen
from the headland near Cliff Farm on a clear day, and the road in front
of the farm ran to the town, skirting the edge of the cliffs for nearly
the whole of the way.

Crewe and Marsland walked up the road from the house for some distance
in silence. Sir George Granville had gone back to Staveley in his
car, but his nephew and Crewe had arranged to stay behind and spend
the night at Ashlingsea. Crewe desired to begin his investigations
without delay, and Inspector Payne had asked Mr. Marsland to remain
at Ashlingsea in case Detective Gillett wanted further light from him
on incidental points. As they walked along, Crewe was thoughtful, and
Marsland scrutinized the way-side closely, anxious to find the spot
where his horse had swerved and stumbled on the previous night. Thus
preoccupied, they reached the highest point of the cliff, a rocky
headland which ran out from the hill-top on the other side of the
cutting, forming a landmark well known to the fishermen of the district.

The headland, which was not more than a hundred yards across at the
base, jutted sharply out into the sea. Immediately beyond it, on
the Staveley side, the road ran along the edge of the cliffs for
several hundred yards, with a light rail fence on the outside as some
protection for traffic from the danger of going over the side to the
rocks below. Where the grassy margin of the headland narrowed to this
dangerous pass, an ancient and faded notice board on a post which had
departed from its perpendicular position warned drivers that the next
portion of the road was DANGEROUS, and a similar board was affixed to
the other end of the protecting fence.

Marsland stopped opposite the point where the first notice-board
confronted them from the narrowing margin of headland.

"It was somewhere about here that my horse took fright last night,
I think," he said, examining the green bank on the side of the road
farthest from the cliff. "Yes, here is where he slipped."

Crewe examined the deep indentation of hoofmarks with interest.

"It's lucky for you your horse shied in that direction," he said. "If
he had sprung the other way you might have gone over the cliffs, in
spite of the fence. Look here!"

Marsland followed him to the edge of the cliff and glanced over. The
tide was out, and the cliffside fell almost perpendicularly to the
jagged rocks nearly 300 feet below.

"They'd be covered at high tide," said Crewe, pointing downward to the
rocks. "But even if one fell over at high tide there would not be much
chance of escape. The breakers must come in with terrific force on this
rocky coast."

"It's a horribly dangerous piece of road, especially at night-time,"
said Marsland. "I suppose there was some bad accident here at one time
or another, which compelled the local authorities to put up that fence
and the warning notices. Even now, it's far from safe. Somebody's had a
narrow escape from going over: look at that notice-board leaning down
on one side. Some passing motor-car has gone too close to the edge of
the road--probably in the dark--and bumped it half over."

"I noticed it," said Crewe. "I agree with you: this piece of road
is highly dangerous. There will be a shocking accident here some day
unless the local authorities close this portion of the road and make
a detour to that point lower down where those sheep are grazing. But
local authorities never act wisely until they have had an accident.
Still, I suppose the people of the country-side are so well used to
this cliff road that they never think of the danger. Apparently it's
the only road between Ashlingsea and Staveley."

Crewe slowly filled his large pipe, and lit it. He smoked thoughtfully,
gazing round at the scene. The high headland on which they stood
commanded an uninterrupted view of downs, sea, and coast. It was a
clear day, and the distant city of Staveley, with its towering spires,
was silhouetted against the sky like an etching in grey. To the left
the fishing village of Ashlingsea nestled on the sands, its stone-grey
houses gleaming in a silver setting, the sails of its fishing fleet
flecked white on the sunlit blue of the sea.

On the Ashlingsea side the cliffs fell away quickly, and sloped down to
a level beach less than a mile from the headland. About five hundred
yards from the headland the cliff front was less precipitous, and a
footpath showed a faint trail on its face, running down to a little
stone landing place, where a fisherman could be seen mooring a boat.
Crewe pointed out the path to Marsland.

"I should like to explore that path," he said. "I should say it is not
very far from Cliff Farm. Do you think you could manage it?"

The question referred to the fact that Marsland was a wounded man.
Crewe had taken a fancy to Marsland on account of his unaffected manner
and manly bearing. It was evident to him that the young man had been a
good officer, a staunch comrade, and that he had been extremely popular
with the men under him. No word in reference to Marsland's military
career had passed between Crewe and his companion.

Crewe was anxious to respect the medical advice which forbade Marsland
to discuss the war or anything relating to his experience at the
front. But in order to clear the way for candour and companionship
Crewe thought it best to give an occasional indication that Sir George
Granville had confided in him about his nephew's state of health and
the cause of it. Crewe was somewhat amused at the pains taken to make
Marsland forget his past connection with the Army, when in so many ways
he betrayed to any keen observer the effects of military training and
discipline.

"I can manage it quite easily," said Marsland with a smile, in reply to
Crewe's question. "I am not such a wreck as you'd all like to make me
out. Come along! I'll get to the bottom before you."

They walked along to the cliff path. When they reached it they found
it was not noticeable from the road, which at that point ran back
three hundred yards or more from the cliff to enter the hill-cutting.
Cliff Farm stood in the hollow less than a quarter of a mile away. The
commencement of the path was screened from view by the furze which grew
along the edge of the cliffs at this point. It took Crewe and Marsland
some minutes before they could find the entrance to the path, but when
they did they found the descent by it to the rocks below tolerably
easy, the cliff at this point not being more than seventy feet high.
The track ended abruptly about fifteen feet from the bottom, but the
rocks afforded good foothold and handhold for the remaining distance.

The tide was out, and the coastline at the foot of the cliffs showed
for miles towards Staveley in black rocky outline, with broken reefs
running hundreds of yards out to sea.

"It's a bad piece of coast," said Marsland, eyeing the reefs and the
rocky foreshore. "If a ship had run ashore anywhere between here and
Staveley in last night's storm she would not have had much chance."

Crewe did not reply; his keen eyes were fixed on a line of rocks on the
right about a hundred yards from where they stood. He walked rapidly to
the spot, and Marsland could see him stoop down by a pool in the rocks
and pick up something. As he returned, Marsland saw that the detective
was carrying a man's soft grey felt hat, stained and saturated with
sea-water.

"I suppose somebody lost it from the cliffs last night," remarked
Marsland.

Crewe wrung the hat as dry as he could with his hands, rolled it up,
and placed it in an inside pocket of his coat before replying.

"I do not think it blew off from the headland," he said. "In fact,
it couldn't have done so. There may be nothing in the find, but it's
worth a few inquiries. But look at that fisherman, Marsland. He's a
picturesque touch of colour."

The fisherman who had been mooring his boat had turned to come off
the rough landing-stage. He stopped when he saw Crewe and Marsland,
and stared suspiciously at them. He was an old man, but vigorous and
upright, with a dark swarthy face, hooked nose, and flashing black
eyes, which contrasted strikingly with a long snow-white beard. He wore
a long red cloak fastened to his neck with clasps, and reaching nearly
to his feet, which were bare.

He stood for a few moments looking at the two men, his red cloak
making a bright splash of colour against the grey stones of the
landing. Then, with a slight shrug of his shoulders, he walked quickly
off the landing-place. Crewe nodded to him pleasantly as he approached,
and asked him to where the path they had just descended led.

The old man, with a slight shake of his head, pointed to his lips and
his ears, and then, accelerating his pace, walked rapidly away along
the rocks towards the headland.

"Deaf and dumb, poor beggar!" said Marsland, watching his retreating
figure until it turned the headland and was lost to view. "I say,
Crewe, did you ever see such an odd fish on an English foreshore?"

"Italian, I should say," said Crewe. "But he looks as if he might have
stepped out of a Biblical plate. He would make an admirable model for
St. Peter, with his expressive eyes and hooked nose and patriarchal
beard. We'll have a look at his boat."

They walked along the landing-place to the boat, which had been moored
to an iron ring at the end. It was a halfdecked motor-boat about twenty
feet long, empty except for a coil of rope thrown loosely in the
bottom, and a small hand fishing-net. The boat was painted white, and
the name _Zulietta_ could be seen on the stern in black letters.

They turned away, and Crewe suggested to his companion that they should
walk along the beach and back to Cliff Farm by the road instead of
returning by the path they had just descended. He added that he wanted
to have a good look at the approach to the farm from the village.

Marsland readily agreed, and they walked for some distance in silence.
He glanced at Crewe expectantly from time to time, but the detective
appeared to be wrapped in thought. When they had covered more than half
the distance between the landing-place and the point where the cliffs
sloped down to level ground, Marsland spoke.

"Have you reached any conclusions yet, Crewe?"

"About this murder?"

"Of course."

"I have not come to many definite conclusions so far," said Crewe
meditatively. "But of one thing I am certain. The unravelling of this
crime is not going to be quite such a simple matter as Inspector Payne
seems to think."

"I gathered that you were doubtful about his theory that the man who
killed Lumsden got in through the window."

"Doubtful about it?" echoed Crewe. "Doubtful is a mild word. I am
absolutely certain that he didn't get in through the window."

"But the catch was forced."

"It was forced from the inside."

Marsland looked at him in amazement.

"How did you find out that?" he asked.

"By inspecting the sash. I had a good look at it from the inside
and out. Apparently it hadn't been opened for some time before last
night, and the marks of the knife which was used to force it were
very distinct in the sash in consequence. But the marks were broader
and more distinct at the top of the sash inside than at the bottom.
Therefore the knife was inserted at the top, and that could be done
only by a man inside the house."

"But why was the window forced if the man was inside?"

"In order to mislead us."

"But the footprints led up to the window."

"No," said Crewe. "They led away from it."

"Surely you are mistaken," said Marsland. "I don't like trying to put
you right on a matter of this kind, but the marks of the boots were so
distinct; they all pointed the one way--towards the window."

"Look behind you, at our own footprints in the sand," said Crewe.

They had left the rocks behind them some time previously and for five
minutes had been walking on a strip of sand which skirted the cliff
road--now level with the sea--and broadened into a beach nearer the
village. Crewe pointed to the clear imprint of their footsteps in the
firm wet sand behind them.

"We'll try a little experiment," he said. "Let us walk backwards for a
few yards over the ground we have just covered."

He commenced to do so, and Marsland wonderingly followed suit. After
covering about twenty yards in this fashion Crewe stopped.

"That will be sufficient for our purpose," he said. "Now let us compare
the two sets of footprints--the ones we have just made, and the
previous ones. Examine them for yourself, Marsland, and tell me if you
can see any difference."

Marsland did so. With the mystified air of a man performing a task he
did not understand, he first scrutinized the footprints they had made
while walking forwards, and then examined the backward ones.

"Find any difference in them?" asked Crewe.

Marsland stood up and straightened his back with the self-conscious
look of an Englishman who feels he has been made to do something
ridiculous.

"I cannot say that I do. They look very much alike to me."

"You are not very observant," said Crewe, with a smile. "Let me explain
the difference. In ordinary walking a man puts down the heel of his
boot first, and then, as he brings his body forward, he completes the
impression of his foot. He lifts his heel first and springs off the
ball of his foot for the next step. But in walking backwards a man puts
down the ball of his foot first and makes but a very faint impression
with his heel. If he walks very carefully because he is not sure of the
ground, or because it is dark, he may take four or five steps without
bringing his heel to the ground. If you compare the impressions your
boots have made in the sand when we were walking forward with the
others made by walking backward, you will find that few of the latter
marks give the complete impression of your boot."

"Yes, I see now," said Marsland. "The difference is quite distinct."

"When I examined the window this afternoon, and came to the conclusion
that it had been forced from the inside, I felt certain that a murderer
who had adopted such a trick in order to mislead the police would carry
it out in every detail," said Crewe. "After forcing the window he
would get out of it in order to leave footprints underneath the window
in the earth outside, and of course he would walk backwards from the
window, in order to convey the impression that he had walked up to the
window through the garden, forced it and then got into the house. As I
expected, I found the footsteps leading away from the window were deep
in the toe, with hardly any heel marks. It was as plain as daylight
that the man who had made them had walked backwards from the window.
But even if I had not been quite sure of this from the footprints
themselves, there was additional confirmation. The backward footsteps
led straight to a fruit tree about twenty feet from the window, and on
examining that tree I found a small branch--a twig--had been broken and
bent just where the footsteps were lost in the gravel walk. The man who
got out of the window had bumped into the tree. Walking backwards he
could neither see nor feel where he was going."

"I see--I see," Marsland stood silent for a moment evidently pondering
deeply over Crewe's chain of deductions. "It seems to me," he said
at length, "that this man, clever as he was, owed a great deal to
accident."

"In what respect?"

"Because the window where you found the footprints is the only window
on that side of the house which has a bare patch of earth underneath.
All the others have grass growing right up to the windows. I noticed
that when I saw the footprints. If he had got out of any of them he
would have left no footprints."

"On the contrary, he knew that and chose that window because he wanted
to leave us some footprints. The fact that he selected in the dark the
only window that would serve his purpose shows that he is a man who
knows the place well. He is clever and resourceful, but that is no
reason why we should not succeed in unmasking him."

"Doesn't the fact that he wore hobnailed boots indicate that he is a
labouring man?"

"My dear Marsland, may he not have worn boots of that kind for the same
reason that he walked backwards--to mislead us all?"

"I gathered that you do not agree with Inspector Payne that the marks
on the stairs were caused by the intruder trying to obliterate with a
wet cloth the marks he made by his muddy boots."

"Outside the house he does his best to leave footprints; and inside,
according to Inspector Payne, he takes special pains to remove similar
traces. It is hopeless trying to reconcile the two things," said Crewe.

"Well, what do you think were the original marks on the stairs that the
intruder was so anxious to remove?"

"Blood-stains."

"But why should he go to the trouble of removing blood-stains on the
stairs and yet leave so much blood about in the room in which the body
was discovered?"

"I have asked myself that question," said Crewe. "At the present stage
it is very difficult to answer."

"You think it adds to the mystery?"

"For the present it does. But it may prove to be a key which will open
many closed doors in this investigation."

"Your mention of closed doors suggests another question," said
Marsland. "Why did this man get out of the window and walk backwards?
If he wanted to leave misleading clues it would have been just as
easy for him to go out by the front door, walk up to the window from
the path so as to leave footprints and then force the window from the
outside."

"Just as easy," assented Crewe. "But it would have taken longer,
because it is more difficult to force the catch of a window from the
outside than the inside. I think that we must assume that he was
pressed for time."

"But I understand that this man Lumsden lived alone. In that case there
would be little danger of interruption."

"A man who has just committed a murder gets into a state of nervous
alarm," was Crewe's reply. "He is naturally anxious to get away from
the scene of the crime."

"But if this man knew the place well he must have known that Lumsden
lived alone, and that the discovery of the crime would not take place
immediately. But for the accident of my taking shelter there the body
might have remained undiscovered for days."

"Quite true. But that does not affect my point that a murderer is
always in a hurry to get away."

"Isn't the fact that he went to the trouble of washing out blood-stains
on the stairs evidence that he was not in a hurry?"

"No," said Crewe emphatically. "I should be more inclined to accept it
as evidence that he expected some one to call at the farm--that either
he or Lumsden had an appointment with some one there."

Marsland looked very hard at Crewe as he recalled the greeting Miss
Maynard had given him when she opened the door to his knock.

"I did not think of that," he said.

"That supposition gives us a probable explanation why the blood-stains
were wiped off the stairs, and not off the floor of the room in which
you saw the body. The murderer was expecting a visitor by appointment.
The suspicions of this visitor would be aroused if he saw blood-stains
on the stairs. But as he was not expected to go upstairs the murderer
did not trouble about the stains in the room. This is another
indication of pressure of time."

Marsland felt that Crewe was on the track of discovering Miss
Maynard's presence at the farm. He began to see in the light of Crewe's
deductions that her chief object in having asked him to keep her name
out of the affair was to shelter some one else. But having given his
word he must keep it and stand by the consequences.




CHAPTER VII


DETECTIVE GILLETT made a journey to London in order to visit Somerset
House and inspect the will left by James Lumsden, the grandfather of
the man who had been murdered. He had been able to ascertain, from
local sources of information at Ashlingsea, some of the details of
the will, but as an experienced detective he knew the value of exact
details obtained from official sources.

His perusal of the will showed him that Cliff Farm and all the
testator's investments and personal property had been left to his
nephew Frank, with the exception of legacies to three old servants who
had been in his employ for over a quarter of a century.

Gillett had ascertained from previous inquiries that Frank was at
the front in France when his grandfather died. He had been brought up
at the farm, but as his inclinations did not tend to a farming life,
he had left his grandfather, and gone to London, where he had earned
a livelihood as a clerk prior to enlisting in the Army. According to
Ashlingsea gossip, old James Lumsden had been a man of considerable
wealth: though local estimates of his fortune varied considerably,
ranging from £20,000 to five times that amount. Gillett's inspection of
the terms of the will convinced him that the lower amount was somewhat
nearer the correct figure; and an interview with Messrs. Holding,
Thomas & Holding, the London solicitors who had drawn up the will,
supported this view.

It was the elder Mr. Holding, the senior partner of the firm, who
had transacted Mr. Lumsden's business and had taken the instructions
for drawing up the will. The document had been executed seven years
ago. Mr. Holden, senior, a white haired old gentleman whose benign
appearance seemed out of harmony with the soulless profession he
adorned, told Gillett that Mr. Lumsden had consulted him on several
occasions about business matters, but the old man was extremely
intelligent and capable, and kept his affairs so entirely in his own
hands that he was not a very profitable client.

The solicitor did not even know the extent of the old farmer's
investments, for his client, who hated to disclose much of his private
affairs even to his solicitor, had taken care when the will was
drawn up not to tell him much about the sources of his income. Mr.
Holding had been consulted by Frank Lumsden after he had come into his
grandfather's estate, and on his behalf had made some investigations
concerning the time the old man had converted his securities into cash.
Of course the grandfather had lost heavily in doing so, for the stock
market was greatly depressed immediately after the war broke out. But
he had probably realized between ten and fifteen thousand pounds in
cash.

Where this money had gone was a mystery. All the ready money that
Frank Lumsden had handled when he came into the property was the sum
of eighty-five pounds, which had been standing to the old farmer's
credit in the bank at Staveley. Most of this amount had been swallowed
up by the funeral and legal expenses connected with the transfer of
the deeds. The young man had naturally been eager to find some trace
of the missing money. Mr. Holding was inclined to the belief that the
old man's mental balance had been disturbed by the war. He thought that
fear of a German invasion had preyed on his mind to such an extent
that he had buried his money, intending to dig it up after the war was
over. Frank had sold some of the farming machinery in order to provide
himself with ready money. In this way over £200 had been obtained.

Nothing had been paid to the three old servants who had been left
legacies. The old farmer had fractured his skull through falling
downstairs, and had died without recovering consciousness, and
therefore without realizing the emptiness of the reward he had left to
his faithful servants. To Mrs. Thorpe, his housekeeper, he intended
to leave £200, and legacies of half that amount to two of his old
farm-hands, Samuel Hockridge and Thomas Jauncey.

Mrs. Thorpe was a widow who had had charge of the domestic management
of the house for thirty-seven years. Hockridge, who was over seventy
years of age, had spent over thirty years with James Lumsden as
shepherd, and Jauncey, another shepherd, had been twenty-eight years at
Cliff Farm.

Detective Gillett had no difficulty in tracing each of these three
old servants and interviewing them. Mrs. Thorpe had gone to live with
a married daughter at Woolwich. Gillett found her a comparatively
cheerful old woman, and, though the loss of her legacy which her old
master had intended to leave her was a sore memory, she had little
complaint to make against him. She was full of hope that her master's
money would ultimately be found and that she would get her legacy.

Hockridge had gone into the service of a neighbouring sheep-farmer on
the Staveley Downs. It was true that his best days were over, but he
had a profound practical knowledge of sheep, and as labour was scarce,
owing to the war, the farmer had been glad to get him. When Gillett
interviewed him in his new employment he found that the loss of his
promised legacy from his old master had soured him. To the detective's
optimistic view that the missing money would be found, he replied that
it would be too late for him--he would be in his grave.

One hundred pounds was more than his year's earnings, and it
represented wealth to him. He dwelt on the ease and comfort he would
have been able to command with so much money. He could give no clue
regarding the hiding-place of the old farmer's fortune. He was familiar
with every foot of ground on the farm, but he knew of no place that
suggested a hiding-place for a large sum of money. If it had been
buried, his old master must have buried it himself, and therefore the
garden was the most likely place. But the garden had been turned over
by zealous searchers under the direction of Master Frank, and no trace
of money had been found there.

It was evident to Detective Gillett that this feeble old man had not
killed Frank Lumsden. Although he regarded the loss of the legacy
as the greatest disappointment that could befall any man, he felt
no active resentment. He accepted it as a staggering blow from fate
which had dealt him many blows during a long life. The detective's
inquiries showed that on the day of the murder, and for weeks before
it, Hockridge performed his ordinary duties on the farm of his new
employer, and therefore could not have been near Cliff Farm, which was
ten miles away from the farm on which he was now employed.

Thomas Jauncey was an inmate of Staveley Infirmary, suffering from a
severe attack of rheumatism which rendered him unable to get about
except with the aid of two sticks. Gillett's inquiries established the
fact that he was crippled in this way when Frank Lumsden was murdered.
Nevertheless, he went over to Staveley to interview the old man. He
found him sitting in a chair which had been wheeled into the yard to
catch the weak rays of the autumn sunshine. He was a tall old man,
with a large red weather-beaten face surrounded by a fringe of white
whisker, and his two hands, which were crossed on a stick he held in
front of him, were twisted and gnarled with the rheumatism that had
come to him as a result of half a century's shepherding on the bleak
downs. The mention of the legacy he had not received brought a spark of
resentment to his dim eyes.

"Seems to me I ought to have been paid some'et of what belongs to me,"
he said to Detective Gillett, after that officer had engaged him in
conversation about his late master. "Why didn't Master Frank sell the
farm and pay his grandfather's debts according to what the will said?
That's what ought to be done."

"Well, of course, he might have done that," said the detective
soothingly. "But there are different ways of looking at things."

"There is a right way and a wrong way," said the old shepherd, in a
tone which ruled out the idea of compromise as weakness. "I ought to
have been paid some'et. That's what my son says."

"Ah!" said Gillett, with sudden interest. "That is how your son looks
at it, is it? And now I come to consider it, I think he's right. He's a
man with ideas."

"No one can't say as he ain't always been a clever lad," said the
withered parent, with a touch of pride in his offspring.

"I'd like to meet him," said the detective; "Where is he to be found?"

"He is gard'ner to Mrs. Maynard at Ashlingsea. Mrs. Maynard she thinks
a heap of him."

"Ah, yes," said Gillett. "I remember Sergeant Westaway telling me that
you had a son there. I'll look him up and have a talk with him about
your legacy. We may be able to do something--he and I."

On returning to Ashlingsea, Detective Gillett made inquiries concerning
the gardener at "Beverley," the house of Mrs. Maynard. Sergeant
Westaway was able to supply him with a great deal of information, as he
had known young Tom Jauncey for over a score of years. Young Tom was
only relatively young, for he was past forty, but he bore the odd title
of Young Tom as a label to distinguish him from his father, who to the
people of Ashlingsea was old Tom.

The information Gillett obtained was not of a nature which suggested
that young Tom was the sort of man who might commit a murder. Mrs.
Maynard lived on her late husband's estate two miles south from
Ashlingsea. The household consisted at present of herself, her
daughter, a cook, a housemaid and young Tom, who was gardener, groom
and handy man. Young Tom bore a reputation for being "a steady sort of
chap." He liked his glass of ale, and was usually to be found at _The
Black-Horned Sheep_ for an hour or so of an evening, but no one had
ever seen him the worse for liquor.

Detective Gillett took a stroll over to "Beverley" in order to
interview young Tom. The house, an old stone building, stood in the
midst of its grounds--well away from the sea--on a gentle eminence
which commanded an extensive view of the rolling downs for many miles
around, but the old stone building was sheltered from the fury of
Channel gales by a plantation of elm-trees.

The detective found his man digging in the kitchen-garden and preparing
the ground for the spring sowing. Young Tom was a thickset man of
middle age with a large round face that he had inherited from his
father. He was a man of slow thought, slow actions, and hard to move
once he had made up his mind. According to Gillett's standards his
appearance scarcely justified the parental description of him as a
clever lad.

The detective was not an expert in gardening, his life having been
spent in congested areas of London where the luxury of a plot of
ground is unknown, but something in young Tom's method of digging
attracted his attention. It was obvious that young Tom was not putting
much energy into the operation. The fact that his shirt-sleeves were
not rolled up but were buttoned at the wrist seemed to bear out
this opinion. With his heavy boot young Tom pressed down the spade
vigorously, but he brought up only a thin spadeful of earth each time.
Then with his spade in his right hand he twisted the blade among the
earth so as to break it up.

Detective Gillett brought the conversation round from the weather and
vegetable growing to his recent visit to young Tom's father. He spoke
of the legacy and expressed regret that old Tom, who if he had his
rights would be able to pay for proper care and nourishment, should
have had to go to the infirmary. But, according to Detective Gillett,
even adversity had its uses. The fact that old Tom was practically
bedridden when the murder was committed prevented the idle gossip of
the town from trying to connect him with the tragedy.

The detective had not expected to find in young Tom a fluent
conversationalist, but after a few moments he came to the conclusion
that he was a more than ordinarily hesitating one, even according to
the slow standard of Ashlingsea. Apparently young Tom did not want to
discuss the murder. Detective Gillett kept the conversation on that
subject and soon arrived at the conclusion that young Tom was uneasy.
It came to him suddenly that what was wrong with the man's method of
digging was that to all practical purpose he was using only one arm.
Young Tom was careful not to put any weight on his left arm.

"What is wrong with your arm?" exclaimed the detective in an
imperative tone.

Tom stopped digging and looked at him.

"Nothing," he replied in a surly tone.

"Let me have a look," said the detective, stepping towards him.

"No, I won't," answered young Tom, stepping back slowly.

Gillett looked him over from head to foot as if measuring him. His eyes
rested on the man's boots, and then turned to an impression made on the
soft earth by one of the boots.

"I want you to come along to the police station with me," he said
suddenly.

"What for?" asked Tom in a tone of defiance.

Gillett looked him over again as if to assure himself that he had made
no mistake in his first measurements.

"I'll tell you when you get there," was the reply.

"I had nothing to do with it," said Tom.

It was plain to Gillett that the man was undergoing a mental strain.

"With what?" asked the detective.

"With what you want to ask me about."

For a clever lad young Tom seemed to be making a hash of things.

"I have not said what it is," said Gillett.

"But I know," said Tom.

If that was the extent of young Tom's cleverness it seemed to be
leading him in the direction of the gallows.

"You think it is about this murder?" suggested Gillett.

There was a long silence. Gillett kept his eyes steadily on his man,
determined not to help him out by substituting another question for the
plain one that Tom found it so difficult to answer.

"I'll come with you to the police station," said Tom at length. "But
you go first and I'll follow you behind."

It was obvious to Detective Gillett that Tom wanted to avoid giving the
village cause for gossip by his being taken to the police station by a
detective. The detective was not disposed to consider Tom's feelings,
but he reflected that his main purpose was to get Tom to the station,
and that since he was not prepared to arrest Tom at present it was
desirable to get him there as quietly as possible.

"No," he said. "You go on ahead and I'll follow."

Tom accepted this plan and walked up the village street to the police
station with the detective about forty yards behind. Constable Heather
was in charge of the station, and when he saw Tom he greeted him
affably. When Heather was made to realize by Tom's awkwardness that
Detective Gillett was responsible for his visit, he whistled in a
significant manner.

When Gillett entered the building Tom rolled up the sleeve of his left
arm and displayed a bandage round the upper part.

"Do you want to see this?" he asked doggedly.

"I do," replied the detective with keen interest. He was anxious as to
the nature of the wound, but he was too cautious to display a curiosity
which would reveal his ignorance. He assisted at unwinding the bandage.

"Be careful," said Tom wincing, as the detective's hand touched his
arm. "The bullet is in it."

"Is it?" said Gillett.

When the bandage was off he examined the wound carefully. It was a
bullet wound through the fleshy upper part of the arm, dangerously
inflamed and swollen from dirt and neglect.

"You had better get this attended to," said Gillett. "There is a risk
of blood poisoning and the bullet must be removed. You'll be more
comfortable without that bullet, and I want it."

"I had nothing to do with him," said Tom. He spoke in a loud excited
voice. It was evident that he was feeling the strain of being under
suspicion.

"But you were at Cliff Farm the night Frank Lumsden was murdered," said
Gillett, eyeing him closely as he put the question.

Young Tom nodded a surly admission, but did not speak.

"What were you doing there? How did you get this?" Detective Gillett
pointed to the wound. "Take my advice and make a clean breast of it.
I'll give you five minutes to make up your mind." Gillett picked up a
pair of handcuffs from the office table as he spoke, and jingled them
together nonchalantly.

Young Tom's ruddy colour faded as he glanced at the handcuffs, and
from them his eyes wandered to Police Constable Heather, as though
seeking his counsel to help him out of the awkward position in which
he found himself. But Police Constable Heather's chubby face was set
in implacable lines, in which young Tom could recognize no trace of
the old acquaintance who for years past had made one of the friendly
evening circle in the tap-room of _The Black-Horned Sheep_. Young Tom
turned his gaze to the floor and after remaining in silent cogitation
for some moments spoke:

"I was in the garden. It was before the storm came on. I don't know who
killed Frank Lumsden. I didn't see either of them. They were in the
house before I got there. I saw a light in a room upstairs. Then a gun
or something of the kind was fired and I felt that I was hit. I got up
and ran."

"Do you mean that some one fired at you from the house?"

"That's what I mean."

"Whereabouts were you?"

"Just near the cherry-tree at the side of the house."

"Did you see who fired it at you?"

"No."

"Didn't anyone call out and ask you what you were doing there?"

"No."

"He just fired--whoever it was."

"I heard the gun go off and then I felt a pain in my arm. I touched it
and saw it was bleeding. Then I ran and that is all I know."

"I want to know a lot more than that," said Gillett sternly. "Your
story won't hold water. What were you doing there in the first place?
Why did you go there?"

"I went there to look for the money. I thought there was no one at home
and I meant to look for it in the garden round about."

"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.




CHAPTER VIII


CREWE spent 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."




CHAPTER IX


STAVELEY only 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 called _Notitiæ 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."




CHAPTER X


"WILL you 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."




CHAPTER XI


CREWE walked 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."




CHAPTER XII


IT was not Elsie Maynard's first visit to London, but her visits had
been so few that London had presented itself to her as a vast labyrinth
of streets, shops and houses. The prevailing impression of all previous
visits was that, since it was a simple matter to get lost involuntarily
in the labyrinth, it would be a simple matter for any one to disappear
voluntarily and remain hidden from search. But on this occasion, when
there was need for secrecy as to her visit and its object, she fancied
the vast city to be full of prying eyes.

It seemed improbable that among the thousands of people she met in
the streets there would not be some one who knew her. There might be
some one watching her--some one who had received a telephone message
regarding her journey by train from Ashlingsea. To disappear from some
one who was watching her seemed to be impossible, for among the throng
of people it was impossible to single out the watcher.

From Victoria Station she took a tube ticket to Earl's Court, so as
to give the impression to any one who was following her that her
destination was in the west of London. She inspected closely all the
people who followed her into the carriage. She alighted at South
Kensington and changed to the Piccadilly tube. She got out at Holborn
and then took a bus to Aldgate. She walked along to the junction of
Whitechapel Road and Commercial Road, where she took a tram. After a
short journey by tram along Commercial Road she got out and walked
along the south side of the street, keeping a look out for the names of
the side streets.

When she reached Quilter Street she turned down it, and eventually
stopped at the door of No. 23. It was a short street with a monotonous
row of houses on each side. At one side of the corner where it joined
Commercial Road was a steam laundry, and at the other side a grocer's
which was also a post office. The faded wrappings of the tinned goods
which had been displayed for many months in the windows were indicative
of the comparative poverty of the locality. In the ground-floor windows
of most of the houses were cardboard notices showing that tailoring was
the craft by which the inhabitants earned their bread. It was here that
a great deal of the work sent out by tailors' shops in the City was
done, and the placards in the windows proclaimed a desire for work from
chance customers whose clothes needed repairs and pressing.

There were dirty ragged children playing in the gutters, and dirty
slatternly women, with black shawls over their heads and shoulders
and jugs in their hands, were to be seen hurrying along the pavement
for milk and beer. Although Miss Maynard had taken care not to dress
herself elaborately for her journey to London, she was aware that her
appearance before the door of No. 23 was attracting some attention
among the women standing at their doors and gossiping across area
railings. When the door was opened by a girl in her early teens who
had her sleeves rolled up and was wearing a piece of sacking as an
apron, Miss Maynard entered hurriedly and closed the door after her.

"Does Mr. Miller live here?" she asked.

"Yes," replied the girl.

"Is he in now?"

"Yes, he told me he was expecting a lady to call. Are you her?"

"Yes."

"First floor--front," said the girl, jerking a dirty thumb in the
direction of the stairs as an indication to her visitor that she could
find her way up unaided.

But before she had reached the top of the stairs the door of the front
room on the first floor was opened, and the man she had come to see
appeared on the stairs to welcome her. He clasped her hands eagerly
and led her to his room, closing the door carefully behind him. For
a moment he hesitated and then placed his arms around her. Her head
fell back on his shoulder and he pressed his lips to hers in a long
lingering kiss.

Arnold Brett was a young man of spare build whose military training
had taught him to keep his shoulders well back. He had a slight black
moustache, and his hair, which was carefully brushed down on his head,
was raven black in colour. His aquiline nose seemed to emphasize the
sharpness of his features; the glance from his dark eyes was restless
and crafty.

"Darling, I knew you would come," he said. He released her, but only
for the purpose of taking her again in his arms and kissing her.

"But why are you here?" she asked, giving a glance at the impoverished
furniture--the narrow bed with its faded counterpane, the cheap chest
of drawers, the dressing-table with a cracked mirror, the dirty window
curtains and the single wooden chair.

"Before God, I swear I had nothing to do with it, Elsie," he exclaimed
passionately.

It was a relief to hear him declare his innocence. Even if he had
spoken without emphasis she would not have doubted his word. It was
because her belief in his innocence deepened the mystery of his reason
for hiding that she repeated:

"But why are you here?"

"Do you believe me?" he asked. Between lovers faith counts for much
more than reason.

"Of course I do."

"I knew you would," he said. "It is because I know you were true that I
asked you to come. I am beginning to think that perhaps I made a great
mistake in running away. But I was unnerved by the accident. I was
thrown out of the car and I must have been unconscious in the road for
more than an hour. And, recalling how poor Frank had met his death, it
seemed to me that there was a diabolical scheme on foot to murder me as
well. Perhaps I was wrong. Tell me everything. Do the police suspect
me? Have they a warrant out for me? Did you go to the farm that night?
I have sent out for a newspaper each day, but the London newspapers
have said very little about the murder. All I have seen is a couple of
small paragraphs."

She was more immediately concerned in the discovery that he had
been thrown out of a motor-car and injured than in his thirst for
information about the murder at Cliff Farm. She was solicitous as to
the extent of the injury he had suffered, the length of time he had
been unconscious, and his movements after he came to his senses on
the lonely road. Not only were her feminine sympathies stirred by the
thought of the sufferings of the man she loved, but by the fear that
the accident must have affected his mind temporarily and prompted him
to hide himself.

He was too impatient for her news to spare time for more than a vague
disconnected account of the accident. He assured her that he was all
right again, except for a cut on the head which he showed her. It was
on her news more than on anything else that the question of his return
to Staveley depended.

She told him in response to his questions that the murder had created a
sensation. Every one was talking about it. The _Staveley Courier_ had
published a two column account of the tragedy with details about the
victim and the eccentricities of his grandfather in later years. Stress
was laid, in the newspaper account of the story, on the rumour that old
Joseph Lumsden had buried his money after the war broke out, and on the
disappointment of the legatees whose legacies could not be paid at his
death because the money could not be found. The police, it was stated,
had questioned these legatees as to their movements on the night of the
murder. The theory of the police seemed to be that the murder had been
committed by some one who had heard about the buried money and believed
it was hidden in the house, or thought the victim had known where it
was hidden.

She told him that Scotland Yard had sent down a detective to
investigate the crime, and that Mr. Crewe, the famous private
detective, was also working on it.

"Crewe!" he exclaimed in dismay. "Who has brought him into it?"

"He happened to be staying at Staveley with Sir George Granville on
the night of the murder, and when Mr. Marsland rang up his uncle, Sir
George Granville, from the Ashlingsea police station to say he was all
right, and to tell Sir George about the murder, Mr. Crewe was naturally
interested in it. He took up the case on his own initiative because his
host's nephew discovered the body."

"I can't follow you," he said. "Who is Mr. Marsland?" He started back
with a look of terror in his eyes. "My God, you don't mean Captain
Marsland? That is who it is; that is who it is! I knew I was right."

"Arnold, what is the matter?" she exclaimed, rising to her feet and
putting a hand on his shoulder. "You look dreadful."

"Captain Marsland," he muttered. "Captain Marsland come to life
again." He raised his clenched hand and shook it slowly as if to give
impressive emphasis to his words. "That is the man who shot poor Frank.
I knew I was right."

"Impossible."

He turned on her fiercely.

"Impossible," he echoed. "Who are you to say it is impossible? What do
you know about it or about him? Perhaps you are in love with him?"

"Don't be foolish, Arnold," she said sternly. "The Mr. Marsland I am
speaking of is not a captain--at least, he does not wear uniform,
and I have not heard any one call him 'captain.' At any rate, it is
impossible for him to have killed Frank Lumsden. I was at the farm
before he was, and poor Frank's dead body was upstairs all the time I
was there, though I did not know it."

"All the time you were there? When did you get there?"

"About six o'clock--just as the storm came on."

"Six o'clock? And was there no one at the house when you got there?"

"No one."

"You saw no trace of anyone having been there?"

"No. I found the key of the door in the lock and naturally I thought
that Frank had left it there--that you and he were inside. You remember
that you told me to be there about six o'clock, and that you and Frank
would be there before then."

"Yes. That was the arrangement, but--well, never mind that, Elsie, now;
tell me your story."

"I opened the door and walked in," she said. "I called out 'Is there
anybody in?' but I got no answer. I thought then that you and Frank
were in one of the sheds, and I sat down in the sitting-room, expecting
you would be back in a moment. I took the key out of the door so as to
make you knock in order to get in. The rain was just commencing then,
but it had been blowing hard for half an hour. About ten minutes after
I had been in the sitting-room there was a knock at the front door.
Naturally I thought it was you. I rushed to open it and as I flung it
back I asked what had kept you so long. But the man on the door step
was a stranger--this Mr. Marsland."

"What is he like?" asked Brett quickly.

"He is rather good-looking; fair-haired and fair-skinned and
blue-eyed--the Saxon type. He is about medium height--not quite so tall
as you."

"How old is he?"

"Quite young--about 26 or 27, I should say."

"Does he wear glasses--gold-rimmed eye-glasses?"

"He was not wearing them then, but he does wear them as a rule. I think
he told me subsequently that he had lost a pair while he was riding
along--blown off by the wind."

"What explanation did he give of his visit?"

"He had been riding across the downs from Staveley and had lost his way
in the storm. His horse was lame and when he saw the house he decided
to seek shelter."

"Did you believe him?"

"Of course I did--then."

"Do you believe him now?"

"I don't know, Arnold, after what you have said. He may have been there
before I was--it may have been he who left the key in the door."

"I am sure of it."

"He came in and sat down--he certainly acted as if he had never
been in the house before. I do not know how long we were in the
sitting-room--perhaps twenty minutes. We did not talk very much. I was
busy trying to think what had become of you and Frank. I thought it
best to tell him as little as possible, so I made up a story that I
had found the door open and had walked in with the intention of taking
shelter until the storm was over. I said nothing about the key. I began
to get a little nervous as we sat there listening to the storm. I was
upset about you."

"Go on," he said impatiently, as she paused.

"Presently we heard a crash upstairs--it was like breaking glass or
china. Mr. Marsland said he would go upstairs and see what it was. I
determined to go with him, as I was too frightened by that time to
stay alone. On one of the stairs he picked up Grandfather Lumsden's
cryptogram. I felt then that Frank had been there, and that something
dreadful had happened. We went upstairs, and there we found Frank's
dead body in the arm-chair. I thought at first that he had been taken
ill after you and he got there that afternoon, and that he had died
alone while you were away trying to get a doctor. But Mr. Marsland said
he had been shot. Poor Frank! What a dreadful end."

"What time did you leave?"

"We left almost at once. That would be about a quarter to seven. He
went to Ashlingsea police station to report the discovery of the body.
I asked him not to drag me into it--not to tell the police that I had
been at the farm. I thought that was the best thing to do until I saw
you--until I found where you had been."

"Quite right, Elsie--everything you do is right, my dear girl. And
while you and this Marsland were at the farm I was just recovering
consciousness on the Staveley road after a bad smash. It was after five
o'clock before I left Staveley; I had told Frank I would leave about
three o'clock, but I was delayed by several things. He told me he would
come along the road to meet me. I was driving along the road fairly
fast in order to reach the farm before the storm broke, and I must have
been dazed by a flash of lightning. The next thing I remember was being
awakened by the rain falling on my face as I lay unconscious beside
the car, which had been overturned."

"Were you badly hurt, dear?"

"I was badly shaken and bruised, but the only cut was the one on my
head. I didn't know what to do at first. I thought I would walk back
to Staveley and tell them at the garage about the car. But finally
I decided to go on to the Cliff Farm, as it was so much nearer than
Staveley, and then go to Staveley by train in the morning. It must have
been nearly eight o'clock when I reached the farm and found the front
door open."

"We locked it," she interposed. "That is, Mr. Marsland did: he told me
that he was sure he heard the lock click."

"It was open when I got there--wide open," he persisted.

"Then Mr. Marsland was right. The murderer was in the house while we
were there. The crash we heard was made by him, and after we went away
he bolted and left the hall door open."

"The murderer was in the house while you were there," he said. "There
is nothing more certain than that. The murderer was Captai

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