MURDER AT THE PAGEANT, DOWNLAND ECHOES & THE CANON IN RESIDENCE (3 British Mystery Classics) E-Book
Victor L. Whitechurch
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This carefully crafted ebook: "MURDER AT THE PAGEANT, DOWNLAND ECHOES & THE CANON IN RESIDENCE (3 British Mystery Classics)" is formatted for your eReader with a functional and detailed table of contents. Murder At The Pageant – The thriller revolves around mysterious murder and a jewel theft at Frimley Manor, during a pageant commemorating Queen Anne's visit to the great country estate in 1705. The Canon in Residence - The Reverend John Smith is a conventional cleric, who learns on holiday he has been promoted to be Canon in Residence of Frattenbury Cathedral. While staying at a hotel he meets a fellow Englishman, who tells him the clergy are too divorced from reality. This stranger drugs Rev Smith and takes his clerical clothing Victor Lorenzo Whitechurch (1868-1933) was a Church of England clergyman and author. He is best known for his detective stories featuring Thorpe Hazell, the first amateur railway detective, whom the author intended to be as far from Sherlock Holmes as possible. Another Whitechurch's character was the spy Captain Ivan Koravitch. His stories were admired for their immaculate plotting and factual accuracy. Whitechurch was one of the first writers to submit his manuscripts to Scotland Yard for vetting as to police procedure.
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MURDER AT THE PAGEANT, DOWNLAND ECHOES & THE CANON IN RESIDENCE
(3 British Mystery Classics)
Table of Contents
MURDER AT THE PAGEANT
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
"The sedan-chair used in this scene is the chair in which Queen Anne was carried on the occasion of her visit to Frimley Manor in 1705."
So ran the footnote on the programme of the pageant which was being held in the spacious grounds of Frimley Manor two hundred and twenty-four years after the above date; a pageant in aid of the funds of the local hospital at Chiltonbury, the neighboring market-town.
The scenario of the pageant had been written, and the various historical scenes in it produced, by Captain Roger Bristow, well known among his friends as a first-rate organiser of amateur theatricals, and down on the aforesaid programme as the "Master of the Pageant."
And so, once again, after the lapse of all those years, a bit of family tradition was being revived and the visit of that long-defunct sovereign was being enacted.
On the broad, grassy slopes of a rising bit of ground on the right front of the house sat, or stood, a large audience, drawn from the surrounding villages and from Chiltonbury. Before the spectators was a great sweep of lawn, intersected by the carriage drive which led from the high road to the manor, a drive which ended in a wide oval immediately in front of the house.
Some three hundred yards on its way from the house towards the road this carriage-drive crossed an ornamental bridge which spanned a stream running through the grounds. On either side were clumps of trees, forming, just then, the wings of the great scene. Behind one of these clumps, unseen by the audience, but in full view of the front of the house, a large marquee had been erected, forming dressing-rooms and a centre for the assemblings of the numerous properties.
Amid these sylvan surroundings Queen Anne came once again to Frimley Manor, in the traditional way in which she had come in 1705. For the story, handed down in the family, was that the Queen had alighted from her coach near the entrance gate, and had been carried up the drive in the sedan-chair belonging to the manor; carried by four stalwart serving-men wearing the livery of Sir Henry Lynwood, the Lord of the Manor.
So there it was, all over again, arranged accurately in detail by Captain Roger Bristow. From the terrace in front of the house came a little procession, led by the present Sir Henry Lynwood, all in the costume of the period, moving slowly towards the bridge, where a halt was made. Then a fanfare on the royal trumpets ushered another procession, which came into sight from behind a clump of trees, the procession of that amiable monarch, Queen Anne, with her attendant courtiers, ladies-in-waiting and soldiers.
Four lackeys arrayed in the historical livery of the Lynwoods—green and orange—bore the old sedan-chair, with Mrs. Cresswell, an old friend of the family, seated regally therein, wearing over her costume what Queen Anne certainly did not wear in 1705, her famous pearl necklace. Beside the chair walked Captain Bristow himself—it was the only scene in which he was taking a part—personating the celebrated Churchill, afterwards Duke of Marlborough, full wig and all.
On the bridge the bearers set down the chair, and Sir Harry Lynwood, hat in hand, bowing low, welcomed to his house a Queen—who extended her hand from the chair, through the open window, for him to kiss.
It was all very prettily done, and the spectators applauded accordingly. Perhaps, though, the sedan-chair drew as much of their attention as did its occupant. Some of them, friends of the Lynwoods, had often seen it as it stood in the hall of the manor, its long carrying-poles withdrawn from the side sockets and piled in the corner behind it. But the majority of the onlookers had never seen the sedan-chair before, though many had heard of it.
It was a very handsome old chair, lacquered in black and dark red and overlaid with brass filigree-work. The poles, also, were similarly ornamented. One of the bearers lifted the roof, which was hinged, slightly, and tilted it back, while another opened the side door. Queen Anne rose from her seat, stepped out, and graciously accepted the hand of her host. They led the way, followed by their respective retainers, to the entrance of the house, into which they disappeared. The historic scene came to an end.
The sedan-chair, having served its purpose, was carried by the liveried serving-men into the marquee behind the trees. People glanced at their programmes to see what was the next tableau.
It was late, but still daylight on the long summer day, when the pageant was over. The big audience had melted away. Players, drawn from all over the neighbourhood, were departing; many of them still wearing costumes which looked incongruous enough in car or on bicycle. At length only a little group, gathered beside the marquee, remained—the members of Sir Harry Lynwood's family and the house party invited for the occasion. All of them were in pageant costumes.
Sir Harry, a tall, upright man of about sixty, wore the garb of the reign of Queen Anne. Captain Bristow, of medium height and a little inclined to err on the side of stoutness, appeared as the Duke of Marlborough. Harry Lynwood, the eldest son, who had taken part in an earlier scene, was dressed in the trunk hose, puffed and slashed doublet, and flat cap of the Tudor period; his brother Charles, as a dandy of the Regency, wore white pantaloons strapped tightly at the feet, long blue coat, brocaded waistcoat. Anstice Lynwood looked perfectly charming in Early Victorian high-waisted gown and bonnet. She was talking to her great friend, Sonia Fullinger, an old schoolfellow, and about the same age as herself. Sonia had been taking the leading part in a scene which had been suggested by the Vicar, the founding of the Grammar School at Chiltonbury by the boy-king, Edward the Sixth, who had actually paid a visit to the town during his brief reign. And Sonia, in her puce-coloured velvet Tudor costume, made a charming little Edward, perhaps not exactly representative of that delicate and not very happy boy, for her laughing brown eyes, dark hair, and quick, agile movements rather belied what history has handed down as the appearance and demeanour of the weakly son of bluff King Harry.
Mrs. Cresswell posed still—very much posed—as Queen Anne. There was no doubt that she thoroughly enjoyed the impersonation, none the less because it gave the vain little woman the opportunity of flaunting her pearls.
Mr. Ashley-Smith, the Vicar of the parish, true to his cloth and calling, represented, at that moment, the Church of the Early Georgian period, being dressed in black gown, knee-breeches, silk stockings and buckled shoes, with white bands at his neck, and wearing a very dignified white, full wig.
Standing close by Sir Harry was a man wearing a Puritan dress, black velvet, with a cloak of the same material, broad-brimmed, high-crowned hat, with a silver band around it, and moustache and short chin-beard. Sir Harry was speaking to him.
"Very good of you to help us, Mr. Hurst. It's been a great success, don't you think?"
"Capital," replied the other, "and I've enjoyed taking part in it immensely. I hope you'll clear a good round sum for the hospital."
"I don't think there's much doubt about that. Yes?—" he turned half around—"what is it?"
A girl had come up to him from the direction of the house, dressed in plain black, and bareheaded.
"I was looking for Miss Fullinger, Sir Harry," she said. "She asked me, just now, to bring her something she wanted."
"Miss Fullinger?" replied Sir Harry, looking about him. "She was here a moment ago—Ah, there she is—coming out of the marquee." The girl went up to her.
"I've brought you the clean handkerchief you asked for, miss," she said.
"Oh, thank you, Bates. I lost my other one, somehow." The lady's-maid lingered for a moment.
"I'm putting out your apricot frock for dinner, miss. Will that be all right?"
"Oh, yes. If I want it. But I believe we're going to dine just as we are—anyhow, it's all right."
"Very good, miss."
The two men had turned instinctively, and were looking towards the entrance of the tent.
"By Jove!" exclaimed Sir Harry, "she makes a pretty boy, doesn't she?"
"Very," replied Hurst.
"Look here," went on Sir Harry, genially, "we're just going to have some sort of a meal. Everyone ought to be ready for it. Won't you come in and join us, Hurst?"
"Oh, really—thank you very much," said Hurst, still looking towards the two girls. "I don't know—" Then, as if suddenly making up his mind—"Yes, I'd like to—only,—these togs, you see?" and he laughed.
"That's all right," exclaimed the Baronet, and added, raising his voice for the benefit of the group around him, "Now then, you people! It's about time we fed, what? Come along in. We won't bother to change."
"How about the sedan-chair, daddy?" asked Anstice. "Hadn't we better bring it along?"
Sir Harry glanced into the big marquee, with its jumbled assortment of properties and discarded costumes.
"Oh, don't bother," he replied. "It isn't likely to rain and if it did, it wouldn't matter. It'll be all right in the tent with the rest of the stuff. You young folks will have to sort things out in the morning. Come along," he added to Hurst, who was still standing by him, looking at the vivacious Mrs. Cresswell, who was talking and laughing with two men of the house party. As he walked away with Sir Harry, he took the pageant programme from his pocket and glanced at it. Only the names of the leading characters were printed in each scene.
"I see," he remarked, "that Edward the Sixth—that pretty girl you were admiring just now—is Miss Sonia Fullinger. One of your house party, Sir Harry?"
"Yes. One of my daughter's friends."
"And Queen Anne?—She is staying with you, too?"
"Mrs. Cresswell? Oh, yes."
"You must have your house quite full."
Sir Harry laughed.
"We have. But they are all off tomorrow, except Bristow—he's got things to finish up before he leaves."
"Ah," replied Hurst nonchalantly, "so Her Majesty departs tomorrow—as an ordinary subject once more."
Sir Harry laughed again.
"Dear lady!" he exclaimed. "I think she thoroughly enjoyed playing her part. Well, I suppose all the women did. Love dressing-up, you know."
The others were following Sir Harry towards the manor, split up into little groups. Charlie was walking with Sonia Fullinger, in deep conversation with her. Anstice Lynwood, who, with her brother Harry, came after them, smiled. She had more than an inkling that Charlie and Sonia were getting extremely interested in one another, and the thought pleased her. Sonia was her very special friend—and the possibility of having her for a sister-in-law—
But, just then, Harry Lynwood, who was not living at home but had only run down for a few days to take his part, broke in on her thoughts.
"Who's the governor got hold of, sis? That fellow in the black cloak he's taking into the house? I've noticed him more than once. Who is he?"
"Oh, that's Jasper Hurst. He's father's new tenant. He's taken The Gables, you know."
"When did he do that?"
"About a couple of months ago."
"Who is he?"
"Oh, I don't know. An old bachelor, I think. Anyhow, he lives by himself. Oh, he's all right, you know," she added. "Father called, and he's dined with us once. Rather a stuffy old bird—not much to say for himself. Charlie fixed him for this show."
"Looks rather like the villain of the piece, in that black rig-up." Mrs. Cresswell's laugh rang out just then. Anstice glanced over her shoulder at her, and then said to her brother, in a low voice: "Don't you think Mrs. Cresswell is a silly ass to sport those pearls of hers all over the place?"
"Why?"
"Well, they are frightfully valuable, you know. I think she's simply asking for trouble."
"Oh, you mean it's a temptation?"
"Well, you don't know who there might have been among the crowd we had in here today. I know one thing, and that is that her husband would be perfectly hectic about it if he knew she'd been wearing that necklace. He's most awfully particular about it—family heirloom, and all that sort of thing. They say he only lets her put the thing on when he's present, or at shows where detectives are engaged."
"Well, he isn't here today, anyway. And the thing's all over now. If any motor bandits were about they'd have had the bally pearls by this time."
"All the same," replied Anstice, "I shan't be sorry when she clears out tomorrow and takes them away. She only wanted to take the part of Queen Anne so that she could swank around with her beastly jewelry. You know, Roger hadn't really meant her to, but she had the cheek to ask for it, and he let her have it because he thought she'd sulk if he didn't."
By this time they had reached the house. The large entrance-hall quickly filled up with the assembling guests. Sir Harry raised his voice. "Now, you good people, get ready as soon as you can—no changing, you know. I expect you are all precious hungry, what? Come along, Hurst," he added, beginning to lead the way upstairs. At the end of a long corridor on the first floor was a large bathroom with a couple of lavatory basins. Here the men of the party assembled to make a hasty toilet, laughing and joking as they did so. Jasper Hurst washed his hands, glanced at his face in a mirror, adjusted his false moustache and beard, went out into the corridor, but, instead of making his way down again into the hall at once, stood, unobtrusively, at the extreme end of the corridor, apparently looking out of the window. Standing there, in his black suit, in the darkening shadows, he was scarcely noticeable. A shrewd observer, however, had there been one, would have remarked that he kept turning his head and glancing along the corridor, into which the doors from the bedrooms on either side opened.
One by one the men came out of the bathroom and went downstairs. Women appeared, also, coming out of their rooms. Mrs. Cresswell, followed by a girl in black, who was evidently her maid; then Sonia Fullinger, from a room exactly opposite. Presently Sonia's maid emerged. By this time Hurst had moved, and was slowly walking along the corridor to the stairs. He came down into the hall with one of the other men. There was a babel of conversation, and the butler announced that the meal was ready.
"In you go," cried Sir Harry. "No ceremony!"
"Oh," said one of the ladies, "but you must take Her Majesty in, Sir Harry. It's only proper. We'll all follow."
Sir Harry turned to "Queen Anne," who was still wearing the famous pearls, laid his hand on his heart, bowed low, and said:
"May it please Your Majesty graciously to permit me to escort you to the banquet?"
With a smile of appreciation, "Queen Anne," accepting his proffered hand, replied:
"We are delighted, Sir Harry."
Amid a burst of merriment Sir Harry and his regal companion led the way to the dining-room, the rest of the company following informally. Charles Lynwood, however, took care to have Sonia Fullinger close by him when the table was reached. Jasper Hurst slipped into a chair on the other side of Sonia, so that the girl sat between them.
It was more of a supper than a formal meal, and the excitement of the pageant and the actual wearing of the costumes produced hilarity fast and furious. Attempts were made to act parts over the supper-table. Hudson, the grave, white-haired old butler, was quite startled out of his dignified deportment by receiving such orders as:
"What ho, varlet! Wine in this goblet of mine. Dost hear, sirrah!"
"Queen Anne" enjoyed being constantly addressed as "Your Majesty," and quite felt the part. Sir Harry looked on, smiling, from the head of the table. He loved to see his guests in merry mood.
From time to time Jasper Hurst got in a few words with Sonia. Once he led the conversation to Mrs. Cresswell.
"She makes an excellent queen," he said. "Quite the right part for her."
"Isn't it? I don't know that I ever saw her looking so pleased with herself."
"Ah," he replied, "and you know her well, I suppose?"
"Oh, very well. She's a neighbour of ours. We both live at Hampstead, you see. Mr. Cresswell and my father are both on the Stock Exchange—and old friends."
She turned from him to answer some remark of Charlie's. Presently, however, he found an opportunity to talk to her again.
"I thought," he said, "that you and Mrs. Cresswell acted your parts splendidly in that earlier scene—the Norman one. Surely you must have had a lot of rehearsing—I mean more than we actually had here?"
"Oh, well, you see," she replied, "we both knew we were going to play in that scene—Captain Bristow fixed it up more than a month ago. So wedid arrange a few details before we came down here. So glad you approved."
A burst of laughter arising from some joke at the other end of the table drowned conversation for a minute or two. Then Hurst said, casually:
"I hear this merry party breaks up tomorrow."
"Yes. Most of us are off."
"You go by train?"
"No. I ran down here in my car. As a matter of fact, I brought Mrs. Cresswell with me, and I'm taking her back. I've a ripping little two-seater," she went on, with all the car-owner's pride, "and I just love driving. What are you laughing at?"
"I was wondering how you managed to carry all your luggage," he said. "Mrs. Cresswell gives me the idea of the sort of woman who wouldn't be content with a dressing-case when she goes out to stay."
"You are observant," she replied. "She takes a small cargo with her. Much too much for my little run-about. So our respective maids take our goods and chattels by train. Saves a lot of bother."
"I suppose she doesn't send those pearls of hers with her maid?" asked Hurst, dryly.
Sonia shrugged her shoulders.
"Don't know," she replied lightly. "Never asked her. Anyhow, her maid's trustworthy. Been with her for years—Oh, Charlie," she went on, turning to him, "I want to ask you—"
Again a burst of laughter made conversation, for the time being, impossible. It was followed by one of those sudden silences which sometimes fall upon the most animated parties, a silence which was broken by someone saying, across the table:
"When was that sedan-chair of yours used last, Sir Harry? Or was it kept sacredly empty after the real Queen Anne had ridden in it?"
"No, no," he began. Then his face clouded a little. "I believe my family made use of it—until later Georgian times."
"And—the last occasion? Is there any record?"
It was the Vicar who asked the question. Harry Lynwood shot a quick glance at his brother, who frowned, slightly, and looked down on his plate. There was silence for a moment. Then Sir Harry said:
"It was a tragedy."
"A tragedy?" exclaimed Mrs. Cresswell, clapping her hands. "Oh, do tell us, Sir Harry!"
Sir Harry paused again; and then said:
"Very well. It's a bit of family history, and, perhaps, not quite creditable, what? But I'll tell you, if you like. That chair was last used by my great-grandfather, in 1814. And, as far as I know, no one has ever been carried in it since—till today."
A little murmur of expectation ran round the group. Sir Harry went on:
"My great-grandfather, Sir Charles Lynwood, was the second son. His brother, Harry, had died when quite a boy—we're always 'Harry' first, and then 'Charles,' we Lynwoods, you know. So Charles inherited the baronetcy and the estate. He was one of the old hard-drinking, stick-at-nothing in the hunting-field squires. Instead of coming to an untimely end with a broken neck, as most people thought he would, he developed gout, and had to give up hunting. But he didn't appear to give up his temper as well, which was as chronic and violent as his gout, it seems. And the hunt called him still, though he was a cripple and couldn't ride to hounds any longer. But, whenever there was a meet in front of the house here, he insisted on being carried outside in that sedan-chair, and the men who carried him had a deuce of a time of it, by all accounts. If they tilted the chair ever so little, or stopped when he wanted to go on, or went on when he wanted to stop, he let 'em have it—hot and strong.
"Well, one day, when the meet was outside, a restive horse began kicking up his heels close to the old man. The bearers made a move to get him out of danger, but one of them stumbled over a tussock of grass, and nearly fell. My testy ancestor was pitched forward, and his head broke the glass. Then he let out sulphur and brimstone, you know—and his face as hot as a coal, with a trickle of blood running over it. Suddenly he gurgled—and stopped—and—well—there was an end of Sir Charles."
"Apoplexy?"
The one word, spoken by the Vicar, broke the silence. Sir Harry nodded.
"Apoplexy," he echoed. "They brought him indoors—dead. And that's the last occasion until today, so far as I know, that anyone was carried in that sedan-chair. It has stood in the hall ever since."
Mrs. Cresswell shivered.
"And I—I—was the first—"
"Dear lady," broke in Sir Harry, smiling and turning towards her, "or may I say, 'Your Majesty'? Today your gracious presence within our old chair has broken any spell that may have attached itself to it. You have recalled the memories of all the dear, beautiful women who have sat in it. Never again can we associate it with a tragedy, what?"
"Oh, daddy!" exclaimed Anstice, "since when have you learned to pay such compliments?"
"Since I became one of Her gracious Majesty's courtiers, my dear," replied her father, placing his hand on his heart, and bowing to Mrs. Cresswell, gallantly.
"You play your part well, Sir Harry," said Captain Bristow. "I shall never attempt to coach you again."
Once more laughter and merriment broke out round the supper-table. Presently, the meal over, an adjournment was made to the hall. Cigars and cigarettes added incongruity to the various costumes.
Sonia Fullinger was the first to retire, on the plea of a headache; the other ladies followed. A move was made on the part of the men, to the smoking-room. The Vicar, who was a bachelor and kept late hours, was easily persuaded to stay for a little while. Hudson brought whisky, siphons and glasses.
The hour grew late. One by one the men slipped off. Sir Harry begged to be excused. He was tired, he said. Finally, only four remained in the smoking-room—Captain Bristow, Charles Lynwood, Jasper Hurst and the Vicar. The latter, like many of the clergy, was a reader of detective-stories and an amateur student of criminology. And, in the course of conversation, he discovered that Captain Bristow, in the last two years of the Great War, had been in the Secret Service. He tried to draw him; Bristow, at first, was reticent, but presently opened out a little—on general topics only, however. He ignored all innuendoes which might have led up to personal experiences. Charles Lynwood and Jasper Hurst for the most part were silent—but interested—listeners.
"Oh, well," the Captain said presently, in answer to a question put by the Vicar, "it isn't easy to answer. A perfect criminal! None of the criminals we know of were perfect. They wouldn't have been found out if they had been. If ever there was what you mean by a 'perfect' criminal, no one ever knew him as a criminal. Perfection, you see, in such a case, means absolute concealment. Doesn't it?"
"Well, yes, I suppose it does," agreed the Vicar. "What do you think, Hurst?" he went on.
Jasper Hurst took his cigar from his mouth, flicked the ash from it with his little finger into one of the trays on the table, and said, thoughtfully:
"Absolute concealment, yes—as far as the criminal himself is aware. But there may have been those—and no doubt there were—who imagined themselves to be perfect criminals, as you call them, but whose secrets were known by someone else, all the time."
"Someone who never let it out, you mean?" asked Charlie.
"Exactly."
"Someone who himself kept the secret from motives of self-preservation?" hazarded Charles.
"Not necessarily," replied Hurst. "One might keep the secret of another's crime out of purely altruistic motives."
"But, surely," broke in the Vicar, "that would be extremely immoral, wouldn't it?"
It was a little difficult, on account of his false moustache and beard, to see if Hurst was smiling slightly, as he answered:
"That depends upon how one interprets moral action—or, in the case we are considering, inaction."
"Well," said the Vicar, "to go back to what we were saying about the perfect criminal. Reverse the question. Is there such a thing as a perfect detective?"
"Can't be—unless he's the Pope," replied Bristow, with a smile. "The Pope?" asked Charlie.
"The Vicar understands—don't you, Vicar?" said Bristow. "Infallibility?" suggested the cleric.
"Exactly. The perfect detective must be infallible in method, deduction—and even instinct."
"Which latter," observed the Vicar, "is much more, by its nature, inclined to infallibility than method or deduction. But," he added, "that brings us from the realms of criminology into an even more extensive area, in which I, for one, haven't time to wander tonight—I mean psychology. Oh," he went on, glancing at his watch, "I'd no idea it was so late."
He got up. So did the others. Charlie, acting as host, pointed to the decanter.
"Another—?" he began.
"No, thanks," said the Vicar. "I limit myself now and then to a small one. And I've had it."
"Hurst?"
Jasper Hurst, also, refused.
"Well," went on the young man, "a cigarette—to start with—" and he produced and opened his case. "Oh! da—I beg your pardon, Vicar! Hang it all!"
"What's the matter?" asked Bristow.
"Empty," replied Charlie, showing his case. "Fact is, I took my last box with me to the dressing-tent. Thought they'd be useful there."
"I've got plenty," said Bristow.
"Thanks, but I'm used to my own peculiarly vicious brand. I'll run over to the tent and get the box."
The four men walked to the hall. The Vicar found there the old-fashioned, three-cornered hat belonging to his costume, and put it on. "The back gates are not locked, are they?" he asked Charlie. "No. They're all right."
"That's my nearest way. A bit further round for you, Hurst?"
"Yes," replied Hurst, putting on his big, black, broad-brimmed hat. "I'll go down the drive."
Charlie opened the front door.
"Don't wait up for me, old man," he said to Bristow. "I'll lock up when I get back."
"All right," replied Bristow. "I'm going up to bed. Good night."
He stepped outside, however, on to the terrace. The moon, well on in her last quarter, had risen, but behind clouds. There was just light enough to see dimly. He watched the three men as they left the house—and separated. The Vicar turned to the left, to make his way through the stable-yard to the back entrance; the sombre figure of Jasper Hurst took the carriage-drive towards the bridge and the main entrance; while Charles Lynwood walked across the lawn to the marquee. He was the most distinct of the three, on account of the white trousers he was wearing.
Then Roger Bristow came in, shut the door quietly, and slowly went up the stairs from the hall. Half-way up, in a niche, stood a grandfather-clock. As he passed it it struck—once. He glanced at the dial. Half-past one.
Chapter 2
Roger Bristow was tired. The pageant had given him much work, both of brain and body, and, that day, he had been on the go since an early hour in the morning. He was not sorry to get to his room, and confessed to himself that the prospect of bed was an inviting one.
His room was one of several in the front of the house, opening into the long corridor on the first floor. When he entered it, heavy curtains were drawn across the window, and the room was in darkness. He turned on the electric light and began to divest himself of his garments. Off came the long jack-boots, the voluminous, full-skirted coat and full wig. He gave a sigh of relief, filled and lighted his pipe, and sat down in a comfortable arm-chair for a final whiff. He was in one of those tired, lethargic moods when one knows the sooner one is between the sheets the better, and yet dawdles in the preparations for getting there.
Presently, however, he knocked the ashes out of his pipe and lazily proceeded to take off the rest of his clothes and get into pyjamas. He wound up his watch, placing it on a small table beside his bed, and laid by it a little pocket electric torch. He liked to know what time it was if he woke in the night.
Turning off the light, he found his way to the window, drew aside the curtains, and opened one of the casements, lingering for a moment or two to breathe the cool, fresh air. It was a very still night outside; the moon was obscured by slowly-moving clouds, but there was just light enough to discern the larger objects, the trees, the broad sweep of the carriage-drive, the bridge with its low stone parapets, and, especially, the big white mass of the marquee, standing solidly against its background of trees, a white mass broken by a dark square shape in its centre, the opening into the tent.
He was just about to move away from the window and get into bed when he hesitated: a blur appeared against the white of the marquee—someone was coming out of the opening—Oh, Charles, of course, he thought. What a time he had been, though! No—it was very strange—against that white background something else appeared—a crude, big mass of a thing, followed, as it moved slowly, by another figure. Just then the clouds partly cleared for a moment from the moon, the dim light strengthened. There could be no mistake about it.
It was the sedan-chair, being carried by two men out of the marquee. Charlie!—no, neither of them could be Charlie—he was wearing white trousers. And the two moving figures were as dark and black as the trees.
Astonishment at so weird an occurrence in the middle of the night gave way to a smile. What a cumbersome thing to steal, and how could it be disposed of afterwards? For that was the first thought that entered his mind. It had become known that a valuable antique had been left in the marquee for the night, and thieves were calmly carrying it away. But they should not get far with it, anyhow. He would see to that. He was wide-awake once more, now.
Without turning on the light he slipped into a jacket, put on a pair of shoes, took the little electric torch, and opened the door very quietly, turning on his torch as he stepped into the corridor. He went swiftly down the stairs: the hall, which had a single electric light burning in it when he had gone up to his room, was now in darkness. Of course. Charlie had turned off the light when he had come in. By the door in the hall was a stand full of umbrellas and walking-sticks. Taking one of the latter, a good, heavy one, he prepared to unfasten the door.
But it proved to be unlocked and unbolted, and he had only to turn the handle to open it. "Queer!" he thought. "Charlie must have forgotten to lock up."
He had extinguished his torch before going outside. He had no wish for a light to be seen. Outside he stood still for just a moment on the terrace. He could just discern the two men, still carrying the chair. They were taking it away from the house, along the drive, and had almost reached the bridge.
Stepping lightly over the gravelled oval of the drive, Bristow made for the lawn, and sprinted silently over the grass. But he forgot, in his haste, that a gravelled path, leading from the drive, crossed the lawn about half-way to the bridge. As he raced across it, "scrunch-scrunch" rang out his two footsteps in the quiet night.
"Damn!" he ejaculated beneath his breath. For he knew that he had given the alarm.
Then he saw, in the shrouded moonlight, the bearers set down the chair and start running down the drive. He gave chase, passing the chair, which was now standing on the bridge. The two men had a start, but Bristow, in spite of his inclination to stoutness, was a quick runner, and hoped condition would tell.
But the instant he had rounded the slight curve beyond the bridge, he caught sight of something which had been, up to this time, completely hidden by intervening trees—a small, open four-seater motor-car, with its head pointing down the drive. Already his quarry had scrambled into her, and he heard the "Whir-r-r-chug-chug" of the engine as the electric starter was pressed. She began to move off, slowly, on first gear, but without her light showing. He sprinted, desperately, to overtake her, if he could, but there was a grinding noise as a hasty change of gear was made, she gathered speed—and he knew the chase was up.
But he did not lose his presence of mind. The lights on the car were still extinguished, so that the rear number-plate was indiscernible. He flashed on his torch, however, just in time to read and memorize the registration number:
"QV 5277."
Then he stopped to recover his breath. Even then he laughed to himself. It all seemed so absurd. How could a clumsy sedan-chair be carried away in that little car? Was it, after all, only a practical joke?
He stood for a minute or so, listening. He could hear the car, as she ran down the drive—no longer in sight, though. Then came silence. She had stopped. Ah, probably while one of the inmates got out to open the gate leading into the high-road outside the Manor grounds. Yes, that must have been it—for he heard her starting again. Well, he had missed the bit of fun he had anticipated—but, anyhow, the beggars hadn't got away with that chair!
He began to walk back to the house leisurely, being still a little out of breath. As he rounded the curve the sedan-chair came into view, a dim mass, standing on the bridge, just faintly outlined by the cloud-hidden moon, which was directly in front of him. Sir Harry's grim story flashed into his mind, and he pictured the irascible old baronet being carried for the last time in that historic chair. As he came up to it he slackened his pace. The interior of the chair, facing him, was naturally in deep shadow, the moon being behind. Bristow still held his little torch in his hand, and, acting on a chance impulse, flashed it upon the old chair—then stopped short.
There was someone inside. The first idea that came to him, following naturally upon the train of thought suggested by Sir Harry's story, was that Charles Lynwood—but no! Charlie had evidently come back to the house and turned out the hall light, though he seemed to have forgotten to lock the front door.
The next moment he was peering through the open side window of the chair, the beam of light from his torch illuminating the inside. And there, seated, was Jasper Hurst in his black velvet cloak, the false moustache and beard torn off his face, and a dark dribble of blood trickling down one cheek from what appeared to be a wound on his temple.
Captain Bristow was one of those men who rarely lose their self-possession in an emergency. The first thing he did was to take the limp, dangling hand of Jasper Hurst and feel his pulse. He thought there was just a faint beating, and the thought was justified when he saw—as he held the torch towards his face—the eyelids of the man quiver, very slightly. The head was resting back in a corner, motionless.
Then Jasper Hurst's lips moved. He was trying to say something—Bristow bent his head down to catch it—just a whisper—almost inaudible; in fact, he only caught two words:
"the...line..."
Then Hurst's mouth opened—the lower jaw fell—there was a deep sigh...Bristow tore aside the heavy cloak and thrust his hand under his clothing...there was no response. Jasper Hurst's heart had ceased to beat now. He was dead!
Captain Bristow, eminently alive to the importance of immediate action, and eminently cool in carrying out such action, did not pause to consider the strangeness of the circumstances. Jasper Hurst was dead. Bristow had seen too many men die to doubt this, and felt that there was nothing more he could do for him, though he realised it was imperative to get a doctor as swiftly as possible. He was not only dead, though, but apparently, murdered. And the murderers had had a start. The hunt was up. The hounds must follow quickly.
Thank goodness he had taken the number of that car! As he hurried back to the house, he found himself repeating it—"QV 5277"—at least he was certain of that.
He let himself in, ran upstairs, tapped at the door of Sir Harry's room, entered it before the suddenly-awakened Baronet could collect his dazed ideas, and turned on the light by the switch beside the door.
"Eh—what the deuce—?" began the astonished Sir Harry, sitting up in bed. "Bristow! What's the matter?"
Hastily Bristow told him. And seemed to take command of the situation.
"I'll telephone to the police at Chiltonbury, while you get some things on, Sir Harry," he said, "if you'll give me the number. And is there a doctor in the village?"
"Chiltonbury Nine is the number of the police. The telephone's in the hall. Yes—Dr. Forbes lives in the village," replied Sir Harry, who was out of bed now. "I'll call Harry, and ask him to go for Forbes. You might rouse Charlie, if you would. Good God, Bristow—this is a terrible thing. I—"
But Bristow was already out of the room, speeding along the corridor. Half-way along, he stopped, at Charles Lynwood's room—a room that looked out at the back of the house. Charlie was in bed. Bristow explained.
"All right," said Charlie, his head still on the pillow. "I'll be down in half a shake. Dead, you say?"
"Yes—best not rouse the guests," replied Bristow, leaving the room—and leaving Charlie still in bed.
A sergeant on night duty at Chiltonbury Police Station, three miles away, answered the call.
"Right, sir," he said, when he had taken in the grim message. "I'll have the Superintendent up at once, and we'll run out in a car. We'll bring the police surgeon with us."
"Sir Harry is sending for the local doctor at once."
"I see. But we'll have our man out all the same. Please repeat the number of that car, sir."
"QV 5277."
"You didn't see which direction it took when it got out on the main road?"
"No. Too far off. And they hadn't lit up."
He rang off. Sir Harry, half-dressed, came down the stairs, followed by his eldest son.
"No need to disturb the whole household," he said, in a low voice. "You've rung up the police, Bristow?"
"Yes. They'll be here directly."
"Good. You go and fetch Forbes," he went on, turning to his son.
"Right," said Harry. "I'll run the two-seater up the village. I can get out the back way without making a row. If Jarvis is about, I'll bring him along, too."
"Who is Jarvis?" Bristow asked the Baronet as Harry went out.
"Our village policeman. Sharp fellow. Ah—here's Charlie."
Charlie came down into the hall. He appeared to have slipped on those Regency white trousers, as the first thing that came to hand. And a golf jacket, tightly buttoned, with the collar turned up and a muffler round his neck. Sir Harry said:
"Bristow, we'd better go outside—and see to things. Coming, Charlie?"
"I—I think I'll stay here, dad,—in case anyone gets alarmed, and—" Bristow, about to go out with Sir Harry, turned abruptly, and broke in:
"Didn't you lock the front door when you came in from getting your cigarettes, Charlie?"
"Did I?—no—yes—no—hanged if I remember. I was awfully tired and sleepy."
"You didn't see anything—outside?"
"This beastly business?—Hurst, you mean?"
"Yes."
"Nothing."
Sir Harry and Bristow were in the act of stepping outside when another voice made them stop and turn. Hudson had come into the hall, his dress-coat over his pyjamas, a poker in his hand.
"Is anything the matter, Sir Harry? I thought I heard—"
"Hush! We don't want to wake everyone. Yes. There's been an accident. You might ask James to dress and come down—but don't make a noise about it. Come along, Bristow."
The two men hurried to the bridge. Bristow flashed his torch on the face of the dead man. Sir Harry exclaimed:
"Poor chap! It's ghastly, what? To think he was with us at supper tonight. A tenant of mine, you know, Bristow," he added.
"Yes?"
"And that's about all I know concerning him. He's only been in my house, The Gables, a couple of months. Quiet, decent fellow."
He leaned forward, putting his hand against the chair.
"Better not do that, Sir Harry," remarked Bristow. "Finger-prints, you know. Not that there's much to be got out of them, for plenty of folks have touched that chair in the last few hours. But it's best to leave everything alone—for the police."
Sir Harry turned to him.
"I forgot, Bristow," he said. "Bit of policeman yourself, aren't you? Secret Service, and all that. What?"
Captain Bristow shrugged his shoulders, slightly.
"I'm out of that now," he replied, "and even if I wasn't—this isn't my business. Ah!" he went on, "Harry's back, I think."
For they heard a car coming into the stable-yard beside the house. In a moment or two three dark figures came quickly across the lawn. Harry, Dr. Forbes, and a man in police uniform.
"He's found Jarvis," said Sir Harry.
Dr. Forbes was a little man, with a round face, and small bristly moustache. He spoke in a quick, staccato manner.
"Terrible business, I hear, Sir Harry. Can't do much, from what your son tells me. Let's have a look, though. Ha!—flash that torch a bit nearer, sir," to Bristow. "That'll do. Good. Umph! Don't take long to diagnose this. The poor chap's dead, right enough. Nasty-looking wound that, too!"
"Broke his skull, what?" asked the Baronet.
"Can't say, Sir Harry,—not without a further examination. That'll come. Burton, from Chiltonbury, will have to take things in hand. Yes. Quite!"
"The police surgeon?" asked Bristow.
"Exactly. I can't do any more at the moment. Unprofessional. Harry tells me he's on the way here now. Good!"
The policeman stepped forward, addressing Bristow.
"Are you the gentleman who found the body, sir?"
"Yes."
"Mr. Harry Lynwood tells me there was a car driven off by two men, and that you had noted the number."
"Quite right. I've already 'phoned it to the police-station at Chiltonbury."
"What was it, sir?"
"QV 5277."
Jarvis, if the light had been sufficient, would have been seen to raise his eyebrows.
"You're certain, sir?"
"Quite."
"That's very queer, then."
"Why?"
"QV 5277 is the number of the Vicar's car. I know it well."
"The Vicar's car?" exclaimed Sir Harry.
"Yes, Sir Harry. A four-seater Morris—open tourer. Was that it, sir?" he added, to Bristow.
"Four-seater. Yes. I couldn't swear to the make. I only caught sight of the back of it, you see."
"Oh, that's the Vicar's car, right enough, sir. Funny thing!"
"Queer business, queer business!" ejaculated the little doctor. "Man knocked on the head and carried off in sedan-chair. Murderers make their getaway in the padre's car. Queer business," he repeated.
"Here comes one who can solve it, if anyone can, I reckon," said Jarvis, just a vestige of pride in his voice as being connected with the solver to whom he alluded. "Here's the Superintendent."
A glaring beam of light shot out towards them, coming round the curve of the drive. The chair, with its silent, still inmate, was illuminated brilliantly, as was the little group of men standing beside it. The driver was the first to get out when the car stopped. Turning, for a moment, as he came forward, to say a word to one of its other occupants, his face was lighted up in the glare of the headlights; a clean-shaven, cultured face, rather long, with pointed chin, large nose, and dark, penetrating eyes.
Then he turned once more.
"Ah, Jarvis," he said, before addressing anyone else. "Glad you are here. Go straight to the Vicarage and get hold of Mr. Ashley-Smith. Find out if his car is in the garage there, and, if so, if the radiator is warm. But don't touch it, or let anyone else do so. Find out all you can about that car, where it was tonight. The Vicarage is on the telephone, so you can 'phone your report straight through to the Station before you come back here. And tell the Vicar I shall want to see him,—later on. You needn't bring him back."
Jarvis, first casting a look on the assembled company which plainly said, "I told you so," was off like a shot. Superintendent Kinch went on, speaking to the police surgeon, who had got out of the car:
"You will do what is necessary to begin with, Doctor...Now..." he summed up the little group, swiftly, eliminating the Baronet and his two sons, and Dr. Forbes.
"Who telephoned to us?" he asked, looking straight at Bristow, as if he knew already.
"I did," replied Bristow.
"Ah! And you found the body?"
Bristow nodded.
"He was not dead when I found him."
"Yes, I understand that. Your name, sir?"
"Bristow—Captain Roger Bristow."
The Superintendent shot a keen glance at him. But, if he knew him by repute, he said nothing.
"Staying at the Manor?"
"Yes."
"I'll get you to tell me, presently, the whole sequence of events. Ah, Doctor," he went on, "you've finished?"
"All I can do now," said the police surgeon. "The Coroner is pretty well sure to order an autopsy. I—"
"Oh, surely," broke in Sir Harry, "the cause of death is pretty plain? A blow on the forehead, what?"
Dr. Burton shook his head, in a non-committal way.
"Externally it looks like it, certainly," he replied. "All the same,—" and he arched his eyebrows questioningly, at his fellow-professional.
"Quite so, quite so," ejaculated Dr. Forbes, "I thought you'd say so, Burton."
"Well," said Sir Harry, "we can't leave the poor chap here, eh?"
"Where does he live?" asked the Superintendent.
"At The Gables. Best part of a mile away."
"Would it be possible—at all events for the time being—to take him into the Manor House?" asked Kinch. "If you wouldn't mind, Sir Harry?"
"No," said Sir Harry; "I think we might manage that, er—"
"How about the gun-room, dad?" asked Harry Lynwood. "Ah—that would do. I'll go back and make arrangements."
"If you will," said the Superintendent. Then he turned to the other man, who had come with him and the police surgeon from Chiltonbury, a big, good humored-looking fellow with a broad, open face, clean-shaven, and fair hair; a man who was dressed in civilian clothes and who, up to this moment, had not opened his mouth. "You'll stay here, Mentmore? You'll know what to do?" Mentmore nodded.
"I'll come back presently—and run home. See you before I go."
Again Mentmore only nodded. He seemed to be a man of few words. Then the Superintendent turned to Bristow. The two doctors, deep in conversation, were following Sir Harry and his son towards the house.
"Now, sir," said Kinch, "I'd like you to tell me exactly what happened tonight, if you will."
He listened to Bristow's concise, clear account of events, occasionally asking a question, but, for the most part, letting the other run on without interruption. He evidently realised that Bristow had the knack of putting things into a succinct form. When the latter had finished, however, he did ask a few questions.
"You noted the time?"
"The clock struck the half-hour—half-past one—as I went up to bed. It would be about twenty minutes later, more or less, that I looked out of my bedroom window and saw the chair being carried out of the tent."
"I see. And these three people who went out of the house. Let me get that clear. Hurst came along this drive. The Vicar went out at the side gate, and Mr. Charles Lynwood towards the tent?"
"That is so."
"You didn't see Mr. Charles come back?"
"No."
"Yet, when you went downstairs again you told me the front door was still unlocked?"
"Yes. But the hall light was out. And I asked Charles about the door. He forgot to lock it, apparently."
"And he said he saw nothing of this affair?"
"Quite so."
"I suppose he did go into the tent?"
Bristow shrugged his shoulders.
"Presumably," he said. "I haven't asked him that. As a matter of fact, I've only had a moment or two with him since."
"Ah, well. Perhaps he may help us later. About this tent. I'd like to have a look at it now. You've got your torch?"
"Come along, Superintendent."
He led the way, along the drive and then across the lawn, to the big marquee, flashing his torch into it when they reached the opening. There was light enough for the Superintendent to see that the interior was divided into three parts, the larger portion, into which the opening led, in the centre, and two others, one on either side, screened by canvas.
"They were our dressing-rooms, so to speak," explained Bristow. Kinch nodded.
"And this chair," he said, "can you remember whereabouts it was left?"
"In this middle division—not very far inside."
The Superintendent glanced round the tent. In it were lying in confusion paraphernalia which had been used in the pageant—odd costumes, hats, tin helmets, spears, swords—many made of wood covered with silver paper—a couple of trumpets—used in the fanfare announcing the arrival of Queen Anne—banners, scarves, a Maypole with its ribbons—in all a very olla podrida.
The Superintendent shrugged his shoulders.
"Writers of detective fiction would have plenty of choice of clues here," he said, dryly. "The trouble is, of course, that if there happens to be anything worth noting, how in the world can one pick it out from the others?"
He stood for a moment, thinking. Then he said:
"It's part of our business to comb things out, though. Look here, Captain Bristow—I understand you produced this pageant?"
"Yes, I did."
"Well, is there a property-list?"
"There is. Miss Lynwood drew one up—a very careful one."
"And these costumes?"
"Most of them hired—and all of them only worn by people living in or staying in the house. The other players provided their own dresses—and took them away or wore them home."
"So you would be able to check these?"
"I think Miss Lynwood might. She was extraordinarily careful in making lists—and, of course, the firm we hired the things from sent their own list with them."
"Good! I won't have anything touched here till the morning. I'll put Jarvis on guard outside the house. Then I shall have to ask Miss Lynwood to check all that is here—One moment, sir, please."
He took the torch from Bristow's hand, and advanced into the tent, flashing it in every direction. Bristow stood, just inside the tent, watching him. A detailed search in that realm of costumes and properties with only a small torch to help was an impossibility.
Presently Kinch came back to Bristow.
"Found anything?" asked the latter.
As a matter of fact, the Superintendent had not. But he was non-committal. His business, just then, was to ask for information—not to give it. He made no reply to Bristow's question. A little smile twitched on the lips of the questioner, but he said nothing.
The Superintendent gave back the torch to Bristow.
"Thanks," he said. "I'd like to go to the house for a few minutes and see Mr. Charles Lynwood—if he hasn't gone to bed again. Then I'll run back to Chiltonbury with Dr. Burton. I'm leaving a good man in charge here," he went on, as the two started walking across the lawn back to the house. "Mentmore—Detective-Sergeant Mentmore. You can rely on him. I shall be out again about eight o'clock. Of course I shall want to interview everybody in the house—as a matter of routine—and I don't want any of them to leave before I come. I shan't disturb them now. But I'd like you to have a list of all the people who are in the house—including the servants,—please, ready for me when I come out."
"I'll see to that. But it is clearly an outside job, don't you think, Superintendent?"
"Looks uncommonly like it, certainly. I suppose you can't give me any details about these two men who made off with the car? Didn't notice anything about them?"
"I'm sorry I can't. I didn't get near enough. And it was too dark to make out anything."
"Ah! I was afraid so. Curious thing about that car, though," he added.
"I suppose you are taking steps—" began Bristow.
But the Superintendent broke in, with a keen glance at his companion—they were entering the hall now, and the light shone on Bristow's face—
"What do you think, sir? Within five minutes of getting your message we had all stations warned to look out for QV 5277. They hadn't time to get far before you gave the alarm. I don't think for a moment Jarvis will find that car in the Vicar's garage, but what I do think is that—"
Sir Harry, who was waiting in the hall, came forward.
"Ah, there you are, Superintendent," he said. "A telephone message has just come through from your police-station at Chiltonbury. I took it down—here it is."
And he handed the Superintendent a pencilled slip of paper.
"Constable Chalmers has just 'phoned from Drifford. He reports a Morris Oxford four-seater in a ditch on the main London road, seems to have run into a telegraph-pole. Both number-plates are missing."
The Superintendent handed the paper to Bristow, a little smile on his face as he did so. Then, with just a word to Sir Harry, asking permission, he took up the telephone-receiver.
"Four-two Drifford, please...Hullo...Yes...Superintendent Kinch speaking...Just got your message sent on from Chiltonbury...Yes...Constable Chalmers found the car...I know...I want you to start a search for those number-plates...Yes—along the ditches—hedges—and so on—taking the breakdown as the centre...Yes, report straight to my office, please...All right."
He turned to Sir Harry and Captain Bristow, a smile on his face. "You can remove number-plates with a spanner in three minutes," he said, "but you don't carry the things about with you afterwards—if you are trying to make a getaway. Ah—here's Jarvis. Car in the Vicarage garage, Jarvis?"
"No, sir. I—"
"All right. That's all I want to know just now. The rest can wait. You've 'phoned your report to Chiltonbury?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very well. Go outside the house and keep an eye on that big tent. Don't let anyone go in till I'm back."
"One word," said Bristow. "How far is Drifford from here?"
"Twenty miles or so the other side of Chiltonbury—on the main London road," answered the Superintendent. "I know what you're thinking, sir. Some speed, eh?"
"Oh, well," replied Bristow, "one can always run to a fair speed in the small hours of the morning. After all, there's nothing in that." The Superintendent looked at him, curiously.
"Do you think they saw you flash your light on the car as they made off?"
"One of 'em did—not the driver—t'other fellow turned his head. I could just see that. You're sharp, Superintendent. You have guessed what I was thinking of, evidently."
"I return the compliment, sir," replied Kinch, suavely. "That is, if I guessed correctly."
"A waste of time?" hazarded Bristow.
"Exactly," retorted the Superintendent. "And now," he went on to Sir Harry, "if I might have just a word with your son—Mr. Charles—"
Sir Harry quietly led the way to the smoking-room, explaining as he did so that the body of Jasper Hurst had been conveyed into the house. In the smoking-room were Harry and Charles Lynwood, and Dr. Burton, the police surgeon. Hudson had made them some coffee. The Superintendent accepted a cup.
"May I ask you one or two questions, sir?" he began, speaking to Charles Lynwood. The latter, who was smoking a cigarette, nodded. "Captain Bristow tells me you went out of the house with the Vicar and Hurst just before half-past one."
"Yes. That is so."
"The Vicar left by the side gate—and Hurst started going down the drive?"
"He did."
"He didn't give you the appearance of a man who was expecting to meet someone?"
"Not at all. He made a casual remark about the pageant—and said good night. Nothing more."
"And you went on to the marquee—to get a box of cigarettes you had left there?"
"Yes."
"Well, sir, would you mind telling me exactly what happened there?"
Charles arched his eyebrows—as in surprise at such a question. "What happened?" he echoed. "Why—nothing, you see. I found my cigarettes—"
"At once?" asked Kinch, sharply.
"Oh, well, I had to rummage about a bit first—to see where they were."
"And there was no one in the tent?"
"Not that I know of, Superintendent."
"And then?"
"I came back to the house—and went to bed."
"Without locking the door?"
"I suppose I must have forgotten—you say you found the door unlocked when you went out, Roger?" he asked, turning to Bristow.
The latter, who had taken a cigarette from a box on the table, was smoking thoughtfully. He was looking down on the floor—near Charles' feet. He raised his head.
"Yes," he said.
Kinch, who had been jotting down pencillings in his notebook, got up.
"That doesn't help us very much. Come along, Doctor. I'll run you back. I'll be out again about eight o'clock," he went on to Sir Harry. "We shall have to find out all about this poor chap, Hurst."
"There I fear I can be of no use," said the Baronet. "I know very little about him—now," he added, "we'd all better get a little sleep, what? There's nothing to be done for the moment."
They all went into the hall, the Superintendent going out of the house with the police surgeon. Bristow was standing by the front door as they left. Just for a moment Kinch stopped and turned, and the two men found themselves looking at one another. A faint, enigmatical smile broke over the Superintendent's pleasant face.
