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"Vampire Abroad," Ward, Lock & Co., London, 1938
"Vampire Abroad" is a classic British murder mystery with a macabre twist. The story begins when Sir Arthur Scarsdale is found dead in his locked bedroom. The local doctor diagnoses heart failure—but Sir Arthur's nephew Shelton, a newly qualified doctor, suspects something more sinister.
As Shelton investigates, he notices strange details about the body. A post-mortem reveals the shocking truth: Scarsdale's body has been almost entirely drained of blood.
Set against the backdrop of a genteel English estate, the novel blends traditional whodunit elements with eerie gothic overtones, making it a outstanding example in the genre of vintage crime fiction.
FOR the third time, with polite but increasing insistence, Benton's knock sounded on his master's door. He was beginning to feel worried. During the past ten years, almost without a break, he had called Sir Arthur Scarsdale in the same way and at the same time. Punctually at half past seven he had entered the room, placed the morning tea on the bedside table, partly drawn the curtains and awaited further instructions. And for the same period his master had reacted to these attentions in precisely the same way. Waking at the very opening of the door with something between a snort and a grunt, he would yawn once or twice, gulp down the first cup and suck his moustache noisily, and only then feel sufficiently aroused either to give the valet his dismissal or to express his further requirements, ranging from a dose of bicarbonate of soda to an elephant rifle.
But that morning things had been different. Never before in all his experience had Benton found the bedroom door locked; and never before had the baronet failed to awaken at the slightest sound. In spite of his fifty-eight years, Sir Arthur Scarsdale still preserved the virtue of early rising and the capacity for becoming instantly alert from however deep a sleep, which he had acquired during a long and adventurous career as a hunter of big game previous to his accession to the title. Of both he was extremely proud, and to Benton it was unthinkable that the first knock should not have brought him to the door in an extremely bad temper almost instantly. The only explanation which occurred to him was more disquieting even than the silence within the room. Benton knew of the visit of Dr. Arnley the previous evening, and the tablets which he had prescribed for sleeplessness and occasional sick headaches by which Sir Arthur had been troubled; and the mere thought of sleeping tablets brought to the valet a vivid recollection of the time when, as a young man, he had found a former employer wrapped in a sleep from which he had never awakened. At the remembrance of his discovery sudden alarm overcame him. Laying the tray on the floor, he beat with his fists on the panels, heedless for the moment of anything but the necessity of obtaining an answer.
"Sir Arthur! Sir Arthur!"
From inside the room there was no reply; but lower down the passage another door was flung violently open. Though Benton had never seen the young man in green silk pyjamas who emerged from it, the talk of the servant's hall made his identification easy. He himself had heard Sir Arthur speak of his young cub of a nephew, Peter Shelton, who, to the surprise of everyone, and not least to his own, had finally completed his medical degree in London. It might have been this achievement which had resulted in a reconciliation between nephew and uncle which Shelton's arrival at an unduly late hour the previous night, in bad condition after a farewell celebration party, had done much to destroy. On the evidence of Slater, the butler, who had been present at their meeting, their interview had been a stormy one, and by no means designed to bring about the gift or loan of sufficient money to buy a practice which had caused, if not Sir Arthur's invitation, at least his nephew's acceptance.
"What the blazes—?"
Perhaps Shelton had inherited the family temper; almost certainly, judging by his appearance, he was at that moment the victim of a headache comparable to any of his uncle's, though differently caused. Clearly Benton's knocking had been more than his nerves could stand, for he spoke with a vast irritation.
"What's up? What the devil d'you think you're doing?"
Benton flushed a little at the tone of the rebuke; then his anxiety reasserted itself. He broke into eager explanation.
"It's your uncle, Sir Arthur, sir!" he said a little incoherently. "I came to call him—"
"Good heavens above us!" Shelton interrupted rudely. "Does it take an earthquake to do that? For the Lord's sake do it quietly, or let the old—let him have his beauty sleep in peace! He needs—" He put his hand to his forehead and closed his eyes. "Oh, Lord, I've got a head! You might get me—"
"But there's something wrong, sir. Your uncle always wakes at the least sound. He never locks his door. I've never known him to lock it... The doctor came yesterday, sir—Sir Arthur had been complaining of headaches lately, sir, and he left some tablets. I thought—do you think, sir—? You see, sir, I can't wake him. I've knocked—"
"You have," Shelton conceded grimly. "I heard you... Tablets? What sort of tablets? Sleeping stuff?"
"Sir Arthur didn't say, sir. But don't you think—"
"Sleeping tablets would account for it. Muck! Some fools dish 'em out like sugar, when all that's needed is that one should behave like a reasonable being—" He broke off the disquisition on what was evidently a favourite subject and put his hand to his eyes again with a groan. "Better leave him. He'll sleep it off in time."
"But, sir, supposing—"
"Anything wrong?"
Neither of the two had noticed the slim, middle-aged man who had joined them. The thin, aquiline face showed an unnatural pallor suggestive of ill-health even under the tan of one who has spent a long time in the tropics, and in spite of the thick dressing gown which he wore he shivered slightly in the cold morning air. The valet evidently hailed his appearance with relief.
"It's Sir Arthur, Mr. Faringdon, sir," he answered eagerly. "I've knocked, but I can't make him hear. And the door's locked, sir. In the ten years I've been with him, I've never known it happen. I'm afraid, sir. Perhaps something's happened—"
"The sleeping tablets would explain all that," Shelton broke in irritably. "He'll wake all right—and in the deuce of a temper, if I know anything about—"
"It's Mr. Shelton, isn't it?" Faringdon's interruption was no less effective through being polite. "Your uncle told me that he was expecting you last night. My name is Faringdon—James Faringdon—"
"The explorer?" Shelton frowned a little in his effort to concentrate; then felt moved to an apology. "Sorry if I was rude—"
"Not at all... But don't you think, Mr. Shelton, that in view of your uncle's age his failure to answer is—well, rather disturbing? He is no longer a young man. And lately, as you may not know, he has not enjoyed the best of health. Dr. Arnley has been attending him for high blood pressure—"
"What? Might be a stroke, you think?" Shelton asked a little dubiously. "He didn't look like it last night—and he'd have had one then if he was going to! He looked in the pink—good for years, I should say... But, anyway, what the devil are we supposed to do?"
"There's another key?" Faringdon turned to the valet. "It seems to me we'd better open the door. If anything were wrong—Perhaps the butler, or Mrs. Woodney would have one?"
"I'll see, sir!"
As the valet hurried away, Faringdon gave a tentative twist to the handle of the door and pushed; then he bent down and put his eye to the keyhole.
"Key's not in the lock," he announced as he straightened himself. "I can't see anything... Really, Mr. Shelton, I don't like it. I believe that you have not seen your uncle lately? Perhaps you do not know that he has an unconquerable prejudice against being shut in, quite an obsession? I can't think that—"
"Sort of claustrophobia? No, I didn't know that." Shelton glanced uneasily at the closed door. "Then he'd never lock himself up... But—well, you're an old friend of my uncle's, Mr. Faringdon. You know that we haven't been on the best of terms—and I'm afraid that he was pretty furious with me last night. If I go bursting in there and he is all right—" He smiled ruefully. "Well, you can imagine... Though you're right, of course. We'll have to make sure."
"I see your position. But I'm afraid we should take the responsibility, even to the point of breaking in... As your uncle's only close relative, and his heir—"
"Heir?" Shelton gave a short, mirthless laugh which was full of bitterness. "As it's always been understood that he'd leave me as little as he could—and last night he told me so pretty plainly—" He stopped, looked again at the door, and continued in a different voice. "But I shouldn't like to think that anything had happened to the old boy, of course... It's all right, really. Just the tablets. If doctors will go dishing out drugs to people who only need to be made to act sensibly it's no more than you might expect. He'll sleep it off."
"But an overdose?" Faringdon countered. "Have you thought of that? I'm not aware what the tablets were, but if Sir Arthur had not been warned of any special danger in taking too many—"
"Hell!" Shelton started, and then passed his hand over his eyes again. "Never thought of that. I'm not bright this morning... Where the deuce is that fool servant? He's taking all day. If it's that—Good Lord, he might be dying while we stand here!"
"Might knock again?" Faringdon suggested.
Shelton's large fist thudded obediently on the woodwork with a violence which threatened to make the use of a key unnecessary. Certainly no one inside the room could have helped hearing it, but the door remained closed. There was not a sound when he paused to listen. All at once he began to be afraid.
"Uncle! Uncle! Wake up! Wake up!"
In the silence which followed, hurrying footsteps from the far end of the passage made them both turn. Like themselves, the newcomer had evidently just been awakened, perhaps by Shelton's last thunderous effort. As he came to a halt beside them, his tall, gaunt figure seemed to tower even above Shelton's own six feet of muscle. Under the iron-grey hair a pair of keen eyes glanced curiously from one to the other.
"What—?" the newcomer began. "Something wrong?"
"Scarsdale doesn't answer, Turton." It was Faringdon who replied. "His door's locked. We wondered if—"
"What the devil are you waiting for, then? Smash it in!"
"The key," Faringdon explained. "Benton's gone to see—"
"Don't wait for that! The man may be dying. Get a move on!" He looked at Shelton's well-built figure approvingly. "His nephew? Good! You and I can manage that together. If the lock doesn't give, the wood will—"
"Wait! Here's Benton!" Faringdon intervened as the valet and Slater appeared at the head of the stairs and hurried towards them. "Slater, where's that key?"
"No—no key sir!" The butler was breathless with haste. He looked with scared eyes from one to the other as he spoke. "Only the one, sir—in the door. There's never been more since I was here. The master, sir? He's not—he's not—"
"That's what we're going to find out!" Turton snapped. "Don't waste time! Here, Shelton—ready? Now!"
With a violence which hurt Shelton's thinly-clad shoulder abominably they crashed against the door together. Between them they weighed at least twenty-five stone, considerably more than the door had ever been constructed to stand. A panel cracked.
"It's coming!" Turton panted. "Again! Now!"
This time it was not the woodwork but the lock which gave. Shelton, nearest the hinges, managed to save himself as Turton fell headlong into the room. For a second they all hesitated, staring into the half darkness resulting from the stray gleams which filtered through the thick curtains. Turton jumped to his feet.
"Come on! Slater, draw those curtains. Shelton, you're a doctor, aren't you? Hurry up!"
Shelton was vaguely aware of his bare foot striking something hard as he hurried across the room to where Turton was already bending over the bed. He had a glimpse of a dark outline against the pillow in the twilight of the darkened room. Then the curtains flew back. Even as they did so, Turton straightened himself with an exclamation.
"Good God! Dead!"
"Sure?" Shelton's professional instincts seemed suddenly to arouse themselves. He pushed the other aside impatiently. "Let me see!"
But almost the first glance at the waxen-looking face was enough. Automatically he stretched out a hand towards the wrist which lay uncovered by the bedclothes; then an exclamation was forced from him.
"He's cold! Dead for hours!"
"Faringdon, get Arnley on the 'phone!" Turton seemed suddenly to have assumed control of things. He turned to where the man he addressed stood shivering just inside the door. "Say what's happened. There may be a chance—"
"There isn't." Shelton spoke with quiet decision. He stood erect, eyeing the still figure on the bed curiously, as though it was something incredible. "Poor old boy! If I'd known—I wonder what—Ah!"
He stretched out his hand eagerly towards the pill-box which stood beside a half-emptied tumbler of water on the table near the bed. Taking a tablet from it, he moistened it with the tip of his tongue. Then he whistled softly.
"Luminal?" He tipped the contents of the box on to the palm of his hand. "Three—five—seven! The ass! How many—?"
He looked from the tablets to the dead man with his brows creased into a frown; then as a thought seemed to strike him replaced them in the box, and taking up the glass, sniffed at its contents carefully. Turton broke in with angry impatience.
"Aren't you going to do anything?" he demanded. "Why, he may not—"
"There's nothing to do," Shelton's voice was a little hushed. "He's been dead an hour or more—"
"You've just qualified, haven't you?" Turton shot out. "Arnley's an experienced doctor... Thank heaven, he'll be here in a minute or two. His house isn't a hundred yards away—"
"Arnley must be an—" Shelton started to reply heatedly, but restrained himself. "I tell you there's no hope. I wonder—"
Pulling back the bedclothes he bent down and began to look more closely, while Turton fumed impatiently in the background.
"You've seen men dead?" Shelton looked up at him. "Notice anything wrong?"
"Wrong?" Turton echoed the word contemptuously. "What d'you mean?"
"Don't know... Oh, general appearance and so on. I can't quite place it... Somehow he seems smaller. As if he had shrunk—"
Turton made an unintelligible noise. There was a moment's silence.
"What killed him?" Turton demanded at last. "You don't think that he—not suicide?"
Shelton shrugged his shoulders. "Can't say. Only I shouldn't think it was the stroke which Dr. Arnley in his wisdom seems to have thought possible. I'd have said, seeing him now, that he was rather anaemic than otherwise—"
"But that—those?" Turton pointed to the tablets. "How many had he taken? Did they—"
"How on earth can I tell?" Shelton's mingled feelings culminated in a wave of irritation. "Now, how could I? Maybe Arnley can say. He gave the damned things. He ought to know how many there were."
"Well, perhaps we'll know the truth—when Dr. Arnley arrives," Turton rejoined acidly. "You take it pretty calmly, Shelton, I must say. But then, after last night—well, I suppose you'll not be a loser by this! You're lucky—" He broke off, perhaps at the sight of the sudden clenching of Shelton's fist and shrugged his shoulders. "Well, that's not my business... What's keeping Faringdon? Slater! Slater! Go and see—"
"He—he's dead, sir?"
Benton had at last ventured to approach, and stood looking from the two men to the bed with a kind of timid obstinacy. Shelton nodded.
"Then, sir, there's something wrong!" The valet turned to Turton appealingly. "Why did he lock his door, sir, for the first time in ten years, sir—ever since I've known him? And in his own house, sir? Sir Arthur never locked his door... It's not right, sir. Why should he do it last night?"
"Better ask Mr. Shelton that; he saw him last," Turton said drily. "And he's Sir Arthur's nephew—"
"If you mean—" Shelton broke out furiously, but Turton had already turned away towards the door.
"Locked his door," Benton stood looking down at his dead master. "But—but he can't be—"
"I'm afraid he's dead," Shelton sympathised.
"Nothing we can do—Benton raised his eyes suddenly, and Shelton's voice died away at what he saw there.
"Faringdon! Faringdon!" Turton bellowed in the passage. "Oh, you're there! Where the devil have you been?"
The two entered together. Shelton noticed that Faringdon had partly dressed, and Turton seemed to notice the same fact with disapproval.
"Really, Faringdon, when poor old Scarsdale's dead—"
"No reason why I should be." Faringdon's calm contrasted with the other's excitement. "If I'm laid up with a chill, that's not going to help things much, is it? I've malaria on me now—Sorry, Shelton. Bad luck for you, coming back to this. Can hardly realise it. Known him for years."
"I hardly knew him," Shelton confessed. "But it seems bad luck that we should quarrel the night before—oh, well."
"Dr. Arnley coming?" Turton pointedly addressed himself to Faringdon. "Why doesn't the fool hurry? We might do something—"
"There's nothing to do!" Shelton snapped. "D'you think I'd be standing here if there was? Nothing but sign the death certificate—and I should say Arnley was the right man to do that! If you're implying—"
"That's all right," Faringdon placed a restraining hand on the younger man's arm. "You're sure he's dead, aren't you? We're all a bit on edge, you know. Turton doesn't mean anything."
"There's no doubt he's dead—worse luck. But Turton—oh, look at him yourself!"
Faringdon advanced towards the bed as he stepped aside; then all at once he seemed to hesitate. A look of horror spread over his face. Before Shelton could catch him he fell senseless to the floor.
CONVEYED though it had been in Faringdon's customary calm and tactful way, the intelligence of Sir Arthur Scarsdale's death might well have come as a shock to Dr. Arnley. Sentimental considerations apart, it is disconcerting even to a member of a profession habituated to death to hear that the host who had invited you to shoot his covers has been found dead in bed on the morning in question. And, like all doctors when confronted with a consequence which they have not foreseen, he was not without grounds for a haunting suspicion that diagnosis or treatment might have been at fault. Dr. Arnley, to his secret sorrow, had often felt such a doubt, though he would have been the last man in the world to admit it. Acquiring his semi-rural practice some twenty years previously, in a district where people normally fell ill and died of the same things under conditions which rendered the presence of a doctor superfluous, inevitably he had forgotten much of such training as he had originally received, and in his heart he knew it. Patients liked his air of decision; for the very doubts which he occasionally felt about unusual cases had made him more inclined to be definite after the event, as they had also rendered him more capable of covering possible mistakes in advance. Private patients swore by him, less because of his brilliance as a physician than owing to his power of listening sympathetically, commiserating delicately, and extolling the virtues of the dear departed. The ability to shoot a pheasant as accurately as a less socially desirable doctor might remove a troublesome appendix had increased his popularity with his wealthier patients, and though recently troublesome competition by a younger man had reduced his income more than he would have cared to admit, his reputation in the neighbourhood stood high.
But as Slater showed him up the stairs he was obviously worried. The day before he had diagnosed migraine; and from migraine, he told himself obstinately, Sir Arthur had certainly been suffering. But whether he had or not, there had certainly been no ground for believing that he suffered from anything so badly as to spoil the next day's shooting. Blood-pressure a little high; digestion a little weak, chiefly through injudicious eating; a bit chesty in winter—there was no reason why the baronet should not have lived for years. But there was that luminal. Of course the baronet had had it before; in spite of a tendency to overdose himself he was a man to be trusted with it. But twelve grains in half grain tablets—Dr. Arnley had a horrible feeling that it might seem excessive, and just at that time he was horribly nervous of the slightest slur on his professional ability.
Turton, who was known to him, having been his next door neighbour at a shoot three days ago met him at the stair head.
"Glad to see you, doctor. Bad business. 'Fraid it's no use. He's dead. Or so his nephew says—"
"His nephew? Ah!" The slightest possible spirit of antagonism stirred in the doctor's mind, quelled almost immediately by the thought that the nephew was now the new baronet. "Yes. I think Sir Arthur mentioned that he was coming... A medical student, I believe? He should know."
There was the faintest possible emphasis on the word "should," but Turton did not take the same trouble to conceal his feelings.
"Cocksure young ass!" he criticised. "Seems to think there's something funny about it... You'll soon see."
"Of course—of course!" Arnley had paled the least degree and he hurried on. "Yes, as you said, Mr. Turton, a terrible business. As a personal friend I may say that I feel it deeply—very deeply. Why, only yesterday he had invited me—"
"This way." Turton steered him towards the bedroom, the whereabouts of which, in his agitation, he had temporarily forgotten. "Dead when we found him I think—in his bed. I heard a noise and found Shelton and Faringdon fluttering about outside like a lot of hens because he didn't answer. Then we broke in the door. Died in his sleep, I should say... What do you think it was, doctor? A stroke?"
"Possibly—yes, very possibly. Without further examination I couldn't say. Sir Arthur, you know, was one of those men who might have lived for years—or died quite suddenly. I had warned him gently to be careful. Anno domini, you know, Mr. Turton, anno— but what's this?"
Just inside the doorway, Shelton was supporting Faringdon on a chair, while the butler hovered near with a glass of brandy and a towel hastily wetted in the adjoining bathroom.
"Oh, Faringdon fainted," Turton explained casually. "When he saw the body. South America knocked him up, you know, fever and so on. When he looked at—"
"The bat! The bat!"
Dr. Arnley jumped and looked round as Faringdon cried out. His eyes had opened suddenly, and he was staring past the group standing round him with an expression of utter horror. Then sanity seemed to reassert itself. He sat up weakly.
"I—I'm all right," he said; but shuddered as he glanced towards the bed. "Give me that brandy!"
He had drained every drop of it before he spoke again, and a little colour came into his cheeks.
"Help—help me get out of here. I—I'm not feeling well."
Dr. Arnley took his wrist gently between his fingers, but his face showed nothing of the jumping pulse which it revealed.
"Shock," he said soothingly, "just a simple shock and general weakness... I should prescribe a tonic for you, Mr. Faringdon. You are run down. Nothing serious, of course... I am not surprised that you feel this—this sad event deeply. Perhaps if you lay down for a little—"
Faringdon snatched his hand away impatiently and made an effort to rise.
"Help him, Slater!" Turton commanded. "There, that's right. Don't worry, Faringdon... Give me your other arm."
When Turton returned, having seen the butler and his charge safely in the next room, the doctor had already advanced towards the bed where Shelton had waited to receive him. The young man's attitude was unencouraging; and the sight of the glass and pill-box at the bedside filled him with disquiet, but he was the acme of professional calm, controlled though distressed.
For a moment the two stood looking at each other in an embarrassing silence. Turton, in his self-appointed capacity of master of ceremonies ended it with an introduction.
"This is Dr. Arnley, Shelton," he said brusquely. "This young man is Sir Arthur's nephew, doctor."
The form of address did nothing to placate Shelton, but Dr. Arnley extended a hand.
"Good morning—er—Sir Peter!" Shelton started as if he had been stung. In the stress of the moment, even the correct butler had refrained from giving him his very-recently acquired title, and the idea that he had become a baronet by his uncle's death was not one upon which he wished to linger. He eyed the doctor with dislike, and shook hands reluctantly. could have wished that we met under happier circumstances, Sir Peter," Arnley continued unctuously.
"There is no doubt, I presume, that Sir Arthur is dead?"
"None. Though I'd hardly thought yet of assuming the title. It's not half an hour since we found him." There was a rudeness in Shelton's manner which even the doctor could not entirely ignore. "You'd better look yourself. You've been attending him."
"Yes—yes, of course." Mortification and nervousness were blended in Arnley's voice, but he tried to pull himself together as he turned towards the bed. "Had you—had you formed any conclusion yourself, Sir Peter, with regard to the cause of death?"
"None. I've not examined him. I thought, as you'd have to give the certificate, I'd better leave that for you. You'd been attending him, and would know what he'd be likely to die from."
"That is so, of course." Arnley did not look up. Ordinarily that should have been so, he reflected; his difficulty was that the examination yesterday had revealed nothing at all which really appealed to him as a possible cause of death. "Yes, of course," he murmured again. "The old trouble, I'm afraid... Yes."
"You'd been expecting it?" Shelton asked with a malice which no one perceived.
"Expecting is too strong a word, Sir Peter." Arnley straightened himself, and casually, very casually as though it were a detail of very minor importance, stretched out his hand towards the pill-box. "I see that he has been following the treatment which I recommended," he observed as he opened it. "Ah!"
His sigh of relief was distinctly audible, but only Shelton understood it.
"You're satisfied as to the cause of death then?" he asked.
"I fancy there will be no difficulty about that... Sir Arthur, you know, Mr.—Sir Peter, was no longer a young man. He had lived an active life, a full life, and one not unworthy of a man of his abilities. Any little thing at his age—any additional strain or worry—"
This time, unintentionally, the doctor had got home. Shelton flushed noticeably.
"You're not suggesting—?" he began hotly, but Turton intervened.
"What did he die of, doctor?"
"Bearing in mind all the circumstances," Arnley said carefully, looking appraisingly at Shelton as he did so. "Bearing in mind all the circumstances, the history of the case, and his condition revealed by my cursory examination of him yesterday," he continued gathering strength as he continued, "I should say that there was no doubt. Yes. Cerebral haemorrhage—undoubtedly I should say that he never regained consciousness. He was lying like that when you found him?"
"Yes," Turton answered. "Cerebral what's-its-name? That's a stroke, isn't it? Thought so... Hullo, Faringdon! Better?"
Faringdon nodded. "It was stupid of me," he apologised. "When I looked and saw him—" he broke off, keeping his eyes averted from the bed. "Funny. I've seen dead men often enough, you'd think." He laughed without conviction, breaking off abruptly. "Finished your examination, doctor? What was it?"
Dr. Arnley inclined his head. He was unpleasantly aware of Shelton's silence; it almost seemed to convey an accusation. But it was not in his nature to precipitate any kind of trouble with a baronet, and his next shaft was entirely accidental.
"Yes," he assented. "A stroke, Mr. Faringdon—following some slight shock or worry... He seemed all right last night? Who saw him?"
"That was you, Shelton—saw him last, I mean," Turton volunteered. "How was he then?"
"Yes, I saw him."
"And how did he seem then, Sir Peter? Worried at all? Depressed?"
"Well, by all accounts—" Turton began and stopped, eyeing Shelton meaningly.
"Yes, we quarrelled," Shelton cut in. "But he was all right when I left him. Perfectly well. Just going to bed."
"Quite, quite," Arnley said soothingly. "Well, Sir Peter, I can do nothing more. I cannot say how much this has upset me. I will let you have the certificate—"
"Doctor, might I have a word with you privately?" Shelton interrupted incisively. The doctor raised himself with dignity, but the young man's next words. "I won't keep you a minute. Something placating. thing just occurred to me which, as a professional man—"
"By all means," Arnley acquiesced a little stiffly. "Where—?"
"In my room? It won't take long."
Conscious that the eyes of both the other men were upon them Arnley followed his conductor obediently, but with a steadily growing resentment at the interference which the request seemed to threaten. There was a trace of defiance in his attitude as the door closed upon them.
"Well?" he asked.
"It's just this." Shelton hesitated for a moment; then continued with a rush. "I've no wish to interfere in your case. But my position is peculiar. I'm a qualified doctor. As you yourself reminded me, I inherit the title at least as a result of my uncle's death. I was the last person to see him alive, and we parted—well, on poor terms... The servants seem to think that there's something queer about it already—the locked door and so on. You see what I'm getting at?"
"Quite," Arnley agreed untruthfully. "Quite."
"Now, you say death was a stroke following some agitation—such as our quarrel. I don't agree with you. My uncle was perfectly well when I left him. It might be said that I killed him. I want that lie knocked on the head once and for all. Are you perfectly sure of your diagnosis?"
For a moment their eyes met. In the young man's expression the doctor read a mixture of emotions which troubled him. He took refuge in a dignified politeness.
"I appreciate your apology, Sir Peter, but I must say that I fail to comprehend your meaning. Am I quite sure—?"
"My meaning's simple enough." Shelton jerked a finger towards the adjoining room. "I'm suggesting that any quarrel we had had nothing to do with his death, directly. I'm suggesting something else caused it. That luminal—how much had he taken?"
"Really, Sir Peter!" Arnley protested. "Are you accusing me of—"
"I'm making no accusations. But that box of tablets was by his bedside. The number it had contained wasn't marked on it—and, by the way, it should have been. So far as I know at present, my uncle might have taken a fatal dose, purposely, by accident, or through the instrumentality of another person. He'd certainly taken some. I want to know if he took enough to kill him. And I want to know if you warned him properly what you'd given him. I'm simply asking—how much had he taken?"
Dr. Arnley's face from being a little pale had changed almost to purple. His wrath prevented him from replying immediately and Shelton continued.
"I don't mind telling you that I think your idea of haemorrhage is nonsense. He didn't look like it to me. In fact, he looked particularly bloodless—almost anaemic. I know it would be a convenient way out for you—something nice to put on the certificate—"
"Anaemic! Really, sir!" Arnley spluttered. "I examined him only yesterday—"
"And found—just what?"
"His blood pressure was high—"
"High enough to cause death? But that doesn't matter. How much luminal did you give him? How much was missing? Did he know he could poison himself with it?"
There was a distinct pause before Arnley spoke. "I—I am not prepared to say," he said gruffly. "Without wishing to be offensive, I must tell you, Sir Peter, that I am not prepared answer to such questions regarding my professional duties except when put to me by someone who has a right to ask them. If you wish for an inquest—"
"But I don't. I merely want to abolish that nonsense about his dying from a stroke following our quarrel. Why, don't you see, in view of those pills and my being a doctor they'll be saying I poisoned him next?"
"I can only say this, Sir Peter." Arnley's anger had changed to a cold fury, and he spoke with a deadly calm. "Your uncle had suffered from migraine, and on previous occasions I had given luminal to be taken during an attack. He was familiar with the use of it, and aware of its dangers. I offer you my assurance that there was not missing from the box a sufficient quantity to kill him, judging by previous experience. But he had certainly taken a large dose—a larger dose than I recommended. I can scarcely imagine his doing so, unless he acted on the advice of some other person whom he believed competent, or unless it was administered to him without his knowledge by someone—"
"Then there was a large dose missing? Enough to cause death? And you didn't mention it?" Suddenly the purport of the doctor's last sentences was borne home to him. "But—Good God! You can't think—You don't mean—?"
"I have already expressed my opinion that it was not as a result of the luminal which he had taken that your uncle died. You prefer, apparently, to believe that it was. Very well. The matter is easily settled. I shall refuse my certificate, and demand a post mortem. If an inquest is necessary, I shall, in mere self defence, be obliged to reveal that Sir Arthur had taken a far larger dose than I had ordered. The Coroner is at liberty to form his own conclusions as to how or why he came to take it, or who might benefit by its administration... That is, I think, sufficient. I hope that you are satisfied?"
For a moment Shelton struggled for speech. He looked as if he might resort to personal violence, and Arnley stepped back a pace in evident alarm. Then Shelton laughed unpleasantly.
"Very well!" he said. "We'll leave it like that.... Will you tell them or shall I?"
"Naturally I shall tell them." Arnley opened the door with an impressive air. "In view of your suggestions—"
He broke off at the sight of the group which awaited them outside the door of Scarsdale's room. Faringdon and Turton had been joined by an elderly woman whom the doctor recognised as the housekeeper, Mrs. Woodney, and the three had evidently been discussing the conference which had been taking place, for they stopped talking guiltily.
"After consultation with Sir Peter, who, in addition to being Sir Arthur Scarsdale's heir, was the last person to see him alive," Arnley announced as Turton looked his inquiry, "I have modified my earlier opinion. I have come to the conclusion that, in view of all the circumstances, a post mortem will be desirable in the interests of all parties concerned. I shall inform the Coroner accordingly."
Faringdon started forward, and his face was ashen, though scarcely more amazed than those of Turton and the housekeeper.
"What—what do you mean?" he gasped. "How—how did he die? You can't think that—He wasn't—?"
He broke off, conscious of the eyes of the others upon him. Turton came to his rescue.
"What the devil's this?" he demanded. "A post mortem? Good Lord, you don't think the man was murdered, do you?"
"Mr. Turton," Arnley replied with due solemnity. "I would point out that no suggestion of that kind has been made by me—"
"But you were definite that it was a stroke—not five minutes ago!"
"And I still believe that to be the most probable explanation. But I may say that the attitude of Sir Peter has left me no alternative, for my own protection. I have every reason to think that a post mortem will reveal death by some perfectly natural cause—"
"Then, why the deuce cut him up?" Turton snapped. "Damned nonsense. Simply making a scandal. Oh well, I suppose you know your business—and I'm not blaming you, Arnley... I'll show you out, doctor."
Arnley seemed to have recovered something of his self-possession as he bowed stiffly in assent.
"Good morning, Mrs. Woodney. Good morning, gentlemen... Mr. Faringdon, I should recommend you to take every care. If you would let me prescribe for you, just a simple tonic, I believe you would find it beneficial... Good morning."
With a shake of his head Faringdon turned and disappeared into his room as they made their way up the passage.
"It's idiocy, Arnley—sheer idiocy!" Turton broke out as soon as they were out of earshot. "And I'll bet it's not your idea, eh?"
"The suggestion, I am afraid, came from me. But Sir Peter's accusations left me no choice—"
"Accusations?" Turton's eyebrows rose. "Shelton accused you of being responsible, did he? That's comic. People who live in glass houses, I've heard—"
"I must warn you, Mr. Turton, against any such implications. I can understand Sir Peter's anxiety, though I scarcely sympathise with his attitude."
"He seems a bit touched to me—or swelled-headed," Turton snorted. "I think they're all daft. What d'you think of Faringdon—going off like that?"
"Mr. Faringdon is clearly in a run-down condition, but that is scarcely surprising... There was one thing that puzzled me. You heard what he said when he regained consciousness?"
"Wasn't listening. What?"
"He said 'The bat! The bat!' And he seemed terrified. As if he had seen something... Turton, I wonder what he meant?"
"Meant he was bats in the belfry!" Turton laughed at his joke, but Arnley did not even smile. "Of course, that was just delirium, or something like that. You can see he's got fever on him... Queer what people will say when they're coming round. I've heard them myself. Churchwardens swearing like bargees—though that was after anaesthetics. Means nothing."
But Arnley did not immediately agree. A vision of Faringdon's horrified face seemed to persist in his memory.
"The bat! The bat!" he repeated almost to himself. "I wonder what he meant?"
EVENTS had moved rapidly a few hours later when a saloon car driven by a plain-clothes policeman entered the gates of the drive leading to the Hall. To his unutterable delight, their progress had rescued Colonel Cheddington from a Church bazaar which his presence as Chief Constable would doubtless have adorned. On the other hand, it had deprived Superintendent Wilkins of a quiet evening at home, and he felt accordingly unamiable. He was visiting the Hall for the second time that day, and as the dark bulk of the house became visible at the far end of the avenue his comment showed that he liked it no better on closer acquaintance.
"Gloomy hole, isn't it?" he asked. "If I were the new heir, I'd cut a few of these trees down and whitewash the place. Might be habitable then."
"Vandal!" The Chief Constable reproached him. "Don't you realise it's one of the architectural gems of the County? Though I admit I'd as soon live in Dartmoor... Anyway, I think young Shelton had better whitewash himself first!"
"I'd hardly say that, sir—"
"You might look on the cheerful side," Cheddington said plaintively. "This is the first murder you've looked like having since I came, and you won't admit it is one! Here's our case. Shelton comes to the ancestral home, wanting cash. Scarsdale is going to give it, but they have a row—probably he cuts him off with the proverbial shilling. That night, the old boy's door is locked for the first time in history. Everyone sleeps the sleep of the just, but he's found dead next morning. Shelton gets fussy, and Arnley demands a post mortem. Then the beans are really spilled; because, as far as they've got, the learned doctors can't find anything Scarsdale died of. But he's dead. And Shelton, as a doctor, should know all kinds of subtle ways of polishing people off. Good Lord, he's spent over six years learning about it—"
"I didn't know that's what doctors learnt," Wilkins interposed drily.
"Well, if you don't like Shelton, there's Faringdon, who faints at the sight of the corpse and burbles about bats. Or Turton, who doesn't seem to have liked the post mortem. Or Benton, the faithful valet, who's so free with his accusations—"
"Or Mrs. Woodney, the housekeeper, against whom there's nothing whatever!"
"That's what's so suspicious. No motive, and no opportunity! Magnificent! Wilkins, if ever you want to commit an undetected murder, make sure you have neither—"
"Then I shouldn't want to do it and couldn't anyway," Wilkins objected reasonably. "Seriously, sir, you think there's something badly wrong?"
"I think the ways of providence are strange—and I've got out of that bazaar... And it's fishy, Wilkins, very fishy, for a nice, respectable neighbourhood—"
The stopping of the car opposite the steps leading to the great doorway interrupted him. He opened the door and got out, standing for a moment to look around the limited prospect which the half light allowed. It was not the first time that he had visited the hall, but he had never before considered it from a professional point of view. Now, in the dusk, the long, low building looked unwontedly sinister. There were lights in the lower rooms; one, at the far end where the curtains had evidently not been drawn, cast a yellow shaft of light on the terrace; but the upper floors were in darkness, and against the sky the curiously-shaped gables stood out in fantastic outline. He was trying, with poor success, to locate Scarsdale's bedroom from his limited knowledge of the interior, when a polite cough made him aware that the Superintendent had joined him and was waiting with obvious impatience.
"Gathering the general lie of the land, Wilkins," he explained. "Most important... Looks the sort of place where anything might happen, doesn't it? Shots from the darkness, ghosts with clanking chains, secret passages—"
"Never ran into any of them myself," Wilkins confessed. "I'm a bit sceptical about—Good Lord! What's that?"
He started back and put up a hand protectingly. Something had whizzed past, almost within a yard of his head. From the deepening grey above a thin shriek sounded. He looked round quickly, as the Chief Constable dissolved into uncontrollable laughter.
"It's a bat, Wilkins—only a bat!" he managed to gasp after a moment. "You see—you're catching the spirit of the place." His laughter stopped abruptly. "Yes, a bat. And, by the way, that's queer. You remember what Faringdon said?"
Without waiting for an answer, he composed his features to an official dignity and mounted the steps. Wilkins prepared to follow him, feeling a little sheepish. He had a real respect for his superior, much as he deplored his impish sense of humour and romantic imagination. And yet, as he stood there, looking over the shadowy garden, he himself was conscious of a feeling not unlike that which must have prompted Cheddington's remark about ghosts. The centuries-old building must have seen so much happen in its time. Even a ghost would scarcely be more out of place than a policeman. All at once he was aware that the door behind him had opened, and that the Chief Constable was already parleying with Slater. He turned to mount the steps.
"Sir Peter out? What, still?... Oh, again. Yes, I'll see Mr. Turton or Mr. Faringdon. Or both. They're available? Good."
Cheddington turned to raise his eyebrows as they followed the butler inside. He did not speak until they were alone.
"Shelton's out—again!" he said. "You missed him this afternoon. Where's he gone now? Not bolted?"
Wilkins shrugged his shoulders. "Probably he's plenty to do," he suggested. "Might just have gone for a walk. Looking over the place, maybe, as he's come into the property."
"Yes. The estate's entailed. Not much else. If Sir Arthur didn't make a will in his favour he won't have gained much... Wonder if they've found the will? And—"
Slater's return made him break off. The butler held the door open invitingly.
"If you'd come to the library, sir," he suggested. "Mr. Turton and Mr. Faringdon are both there."
Following him down the long corridor Wilkins was again conscious of the sensation which he had felt as they waited outside the doorway. Later alterations at the Hall had been confined to the installation of cunningly concealed electric light, and a few improvements to sanitation such as baths, unimportant to our forefathers; and, in the passage at least, the interior must have been very much the same for the last two or three centuries. The first glimpse of the library was almost a disappointment, in spite of the dark oak panelling and Jacobean furniture; for here modernisation had proceeded at least to an extent which made it comfortable. At the far end, an uncurtained French window, must, he thought, be that which he had noticed from the terrace.
Turton and Faringdon rose from their chairs behind a table littered with papers as they entered; and Turton, who, as usual, seemed to have constituted himself spokesman, advanced to meet them.
"Evening, Colonel—good evening, Superintendent. I'm afraid you're luck's out again. He flounced out half an hour ago—young ass! Anything we can do?"
"That depends." Cheddington seated himself in the chair which Turton indicated. "I suppose he'll be in soon?"
"Lord knows," Turton answered disgustedly. "Well, how are things going? The post mortem—?"
"Nothing definite yet. They're analysing things and so on—I'm not up in the ghastly details." Cheddington made a grimace, and no one would have guessed that a study of corpses was among his relaxations. "There'll be an inquest, though, I'm afraid."
"So Wilkins told us. Though I'm hanged if I see why. Arnley was attending him, and he wasn't in any doubt until—"
"He is now," Cheddington said simply. "I see you've been busy here. Found the will? I should have thought this was Shelton's job."
"He's gone out to cool his head—and his temper!" Faringdon had been on the point of speech, but Turton anticipated him, and instead he extended a cigarette-case to the visitors. Turton grinned. "Fact is, we had a row. As it happens, Scarsdale had told us about his will—"
"You've found it?"
"Yes. Ordinarily, we shouldn't have hurried. But the circumstances are exceptional. Had to regularise things somehow."
"It was the will which annoyed Shelton?"
"Partly... I suppose you're hardly interested, but you can see it if you like—eh, Faringdon?"
Faringdon made a gesture of assent. "Personally, I've no objection," he said. "Unless you think you'd better wait for Shelton."
"Don't see why." Turton crossed the room to the table and selected a large envelope. "Here. You'll see, perhaps, why Shelton's cut up."
Cheddington glanced over it in silence for a minute, skimming its contents. Looking at Turton, Wilkins found it easy to understand how his assumption of authority might irritate the young man even without the assistance of the will. Cheddington finished and passed it over to the Superintendent without comment.
"You see, Shelton gets the unentailed estate only when he marries or reaches the age of thirty," Turton pointed out. "Until then, Faringdon and I are trustees, paying him the income or such part as we think fit. That riled him."
Cheddington nodded, not unsympathetically. Faringdon seemed to comprehend what he felt, for he volunteered an explanation.
"You must understand, Colonel, that Scarsdale had reason to doubt his nephew's discretion. And he'd not known him personally. On the other hand, he was a great believer—as a bachelor—in marriage as a steadying influence. He was speaking of it only the night before he died... It rather struck me. He seemed to regard it almost as a settled thing."
Wilkins handed the envelope back to Turton. "No other important bequests," he commented. "A few to servants—five hundred to Arnley. Why was that?"
"Oh, Arnley's attended him for years," Turton explained. "Been paid for it, though... Still, I suppose Scarsdale thought he deserved it."
"The unentailed estate, I suppose, is considerable?"
"Certainly." It was Faringdon who answered. "We've hardly worked it out... Incidentally, there was one thing we ran across—"
He stopped and looked at Turton who nodded.
"Of course. Better tell them. You never know... There may be nothing in it, Colonel, but we found a note among his papers of his having cashed a cheque for a thousand in cash... We've not found where it went to."
"A thousand cash?" Cheddington looked his surprise. "And was that usual?"
"Quite unexampled." Faringdon frowned a little as he answered. "Scarsdale went to the bank and drew it in person five days ago. He never mentioned it. There's no sign of it, or where it's gone."
"He didn't bet?"
"An odd fiver if he happened to go to the races. No more. But that may clear itself up."
"You'll pardon my suggesting it but—well, there's no possibility of blackmail? No women or anything?"
Faringdon shook his head. "Very unlikely. For one thing, I wouldn't care to be the man or woman who tried to blackmail him. And then, he was quite open with us, even about his private affairs. You see, we've known him for years. Turton met him on a big game trip in Africa; I met him the same way in South America. We kept up the acquaintance. Not being married, I think he liked to unburden himself to someone. He was that type."
"Anything to do with Shelton?"
"I doubt it. You see—"
He broke off abruptly as the door opened. It was Shelton himself who entered, and he scowled at the sight of the group by the fireplace. His manner as he advanced towards them was the reverse of cordial. Faringdon hastened to introduce the visitors.
"Oh, Shelton, this is the Chief Constable, and the superintendent. As they missed you this afternoon, they looked in hoping to find you—"
"Yes. Why?"
The answer was blunt to the point of rudeness, but Cheddington smiled.
"Well, Sir Peter, your uncle died suddenly," he explained. "I'm sorry to say the post mortem is unsatisfactory. An inquest will be necessary. We have to make a few inquiries."
"You think my uncle was murdered?"
From the Chief Constable's expression one might have imagined that he was the last person to be capable of such an idea.
"Really!" he expostulated. "At present we can only say his death was unexplained. Several possibilities arise—suicide, for example."
"I see." Shelton smiled contemptuously. "And, of course, I'm suspect?"
Faringdon intervened placatingly. "There's no need to take this attitude, Shelton. You must see that—"
Shelton deliberately turned away from the speaker, facing the Chief Constable defiantly.
"If this is an official interrogation, do I have to speak before these—these gentlemen?" he asked. "If not, I've nothing to say."
Faringdon placed a restraining hand on Turton's arm just in time to avert the threatened outburst.
"If it's agreeable to you, Colonel Cheddington," he suggested, "perhaps we had better leave you? If there is anything further, we can see you afterwards."
Cheddington nodded. He did not speak again until the door had closed behind the two men; then there was a trace of sternness in his voice.
"Making every allowance for your feelings, Sir Peter, I scarcely expected this reception. As a doctor you know perfectly well what happens when a death certificate is refused. You were, I think, the last person to see your uncle alive. Naturally we require a statement from you."
Shelton flushed. "Sorry," he muttered. "I—I've had a bad time to-day. Even the servants seem to think—" He paused. "Sit down, won't you? What do you want?"
Cheddington and Wilkins seated themselves obediently, and even accepted the cigarette which he offered with belated courtesy.
"You broke into your uncle's bedroom with Mr. Turton, I believe," Cheddington began. "What conclusion did you yourself reach, as a doctor, regarding your uncle's death?"
The question seemed to take Shelton by surprise. He hesitated.
"I'm only just qualified," he explained. "I've only hospital experience... Anyway, I didn't examine him."
"But you disagreed with Arnley's view of cerebral haemorrhage, didn't you? Why?"
"Honestly, I don't know... Well, partly, I had the impression that Arnley didn't know, and wanted something nice and plausible for the certificate. Then there was the luminal—more than any sensible person would entrust to a patient at once."
"You know he'd taken luminal?"
"I looked at the box on the table. And the glass had been used. Besides, you could see he had."
Wilkins glanced across at his superior. The thought which was in his mind was that, since Shelton's fingerprints would be on the glass after this examination, there was no way of telling if they were there before. Perhaps Cheddington thought the same.
"Sir Arthur took nothing while you were with him the night before?" he asked.
Shelton flushed. "Nothing," he answered after a pause, and hesitated. "Oh, I suppose you've heard about that. We were having a row. I didn't exactly go to his room to tuck him up. And I wasn't—well, I'd had something to drink."
"I see. Do you remember seeing the pill box?"
"I—I don't know." Shelton fired up suddenly. "I see what you're getting at! Well, I didn't—"
"I didn't suggest you administered it. Your uncle was looking well when you saw him?"
"Probably. He was in the hell of a temper. I know that."
"And you had only recently become reconciled? After you took your degree?"
"Yes."
"Can you give me any idea of how this visit came about? Your uncle wrote to you?"
"Oh yes. He'd seen my name in the list of successful candidates. Suppose he thought I'd turned over a new leaf. He asked me to come here, and hinted that he'd be prepared to shell out a bit. I ought to have been here about eight. But as luck would have it, I ran into some men I knew. We celebrated a bit. I didn't get here till eleven. He was alone here, and was pretty short with me. I lost my temper—then it started."
Cheddington nodded. At some other time it might be necessary to press for further details. Temporarily he let things rest.
"Your uncle hadn't mentioned any specific sum?" he asked. "Say a thousand pounds?"
Shelton looked at him in real or assumed surprise. "Why should he? I didn't owe that much. And, if he was going to help, it wouldn't go far in buying a practice, would it? We'd not discussed details."
"I believe you are informed about the provisions of your uncle's will?"
The young man flushed angrily, and seemed for a moment on the verge of an outburst; but he controlled himself.
"Yes."
"Perhaps your uncle had already informed you?"
"What he'd done?" Shelton broke out. "He did nothing of the kind. He said that—"
"The will was discussed, then?" Cheddington prompted as he stopped. "He said something about it?"
Shelton's face set obstinately. He made no reply.
"Perhaps your uncle alluded to some changes which he proposed?" Cheddington was merely guessing, but Shelton's manner was beginning to irritate him. "Was that it?"
"I've nothing to say!" Shelton snapped out with some violence. "I see what you're after. You can find out for yourself. I won't—"
Right in the middle of his indignant outburst he jumped to his feet. He was staring down the room towards the uncurtained French window and his anger had given place to a sudden amazement.
"What—?" Wilkins began. Both he and the Chief Constable had also risen, and were following the direction of his gaze. "Anything wrong?"
"At the window!" Shelton pointed. "A face—I saw it. Someone was there—"
Wilkins looked his incredulity, but Cheddington had turned in time to catch the merest glimpse of what had startled the young man. He had reached the window and flung it open by the time the others joined him.
All three stood looking out. The faintest possible breeze made a slight sound in the trees, but otherwise everything was still. After the brightness of the room everything seemed black. All at once Shelton started forward.
"There!" he said simply. Almost with the word he had crossed the terrace, jumped down the low wall which separated it from the rest of the garden, and the next minute was lost in the darkness.
Wilkins swore, trying to push his way past the Chief Constable. His one thought was that Shelton was trying to escape. Cheddington put out a restraining hand.
"Wait!" he said. "Listen!"
Only vague noises from the darkness indicated the direction of Shelton's pursuit; then even these died away. The Superintendent was moved to impatient protest.
"He's bolted! Diddled us with that yarn—He'll get away clear—"
"No." Cheddington was still staring in the direction where he had last heard the sounds. "There was something. I saw it. Just a glimpse of something white—moving. I wonder—"
"We'd better search," Wilkins persisted. "They can't have got far—"
"The garden's like a jungle—and we don't know our way about. Besides, I think even Shelton was too late... He's coming back."
Almost as he spoke, the tall figure of the young man emerged into the patch of light from the window. He was coming slowly, looking back now and again, as though expecting to hear something.
"You mean you swallow that?" Wilkins asked. "The questions were just getting awkward—he had to do something—"
Cheddington silenced him with a gesture. Then he called out.
"Any luck?"
Shelton did not reply immediately. He had reached the terrace wall and was just preparing to clamber up when all at once he stooped, disappearing from view. As he rose and climbed the parapet, Cheddington's eyes focussed on the crumpled piece of paper in his hand.
"See anyone?" he repeated. "What's that?"
"There was someone," Shelton said a little doggedly. "I was as near as possible—No. Couldn't tell who it was."
"The paper?" Cheddington took it as the young man held it out and smoothed it flat for an instant before closing his hand hurriedly, crumpling it again. "Where'd you get this?"
"Just down there. Saw something white—What is it?"
Cheddington did not answer. "Shall we go inside?" he suggested, standing aside to let the others precede him. "We can talk there."
On the threshold he stood for a minute looking out before he closed the window, this time drawing the curtain across. He looked at Shelton inquiringly.
"I saw a face at the window," Shelton said. "Something was moving in the garden. I lost it near the trees. Couldn't tell which way to go. So I came back?"
"A face? Man or woman? What sort of face?" Wilkins asked, and the unbelief in his voice was manifest. "You're sure you saw it?"
Shelton stiffened. "Oh, that's your attitude? Well, then, you can—"
"Not at all. I saw something myself." Cheddington soothed him. "That's all you can tell us?"
"Yes. Except the paper. What is it?"
"I'll keep it for the moment, if you don't mind. I don't see that there's much we can do—until daylight... Now, I wanted to look over the house, Sir Peter. I expect you're scarcely familiar enough with it? I wonder if you could find someone—Slater, say, or Mrs. Woodney?"
Perhaps there was relief in Shelton's ready assent. Wilkins frowned disapprovingly. Personally he would have continued the interrupted interview. He was moved to audible protest as the door closed, and they were left alone.
"You're not asking him—?"
"That can wait." Cheddington motioned him again towards the window, drew the curtain and opened it. "Because, you see, there was someone there. Look!"
The surface of the terrace had suffered through the lapse of time and here and there irregularities in the stonework still held pools from the shower that afternoon, though the surrounding portion was dry. Cheddington pointed to a spot a little to the left of the window. The outline of a footprint still damp beside the puddle which had caused it was unmistakable. The Superintendent bent down hastily.
"Good Lord! A woman!" he said. "Who—?"
"A woman," Cheddington agreed. "Here, lend me a pencil."
He stooped for a moment to draw round the drying patch, striking a match as he finished to examine his handiwork more closely.
"That'll do. Now, that will be there to-morrow. Come inside. I expect there are more traces. You couldn't walk on the lawn in those heels without. We'll see to-morrow."
"A woman!" Wilkins repeated as they went back to the fire. "But everyone says that Scarsdale was a hermit—"
"It mightn't be anything to do with Scarsdale. But there's another reason why I want to look round the house. To see if anyone got in. This way we can do it without fuss. You see, there's this."
He held out the paper which he still held, and Wilkins took it. At the first glimpse he started.
"What—?"
It was a bank note for one hundred pounds. He stood looking at it in amazement. Cheddington took it hastily from him and pocketed it as the library door opened.
THERE is a type of person who derives a solid satisfaction from the contemplation of human mortality. Mrs. Woodney, the housekeeper, belonged to it. Funerals were her recreation; death and illness her delight, and hearing her speak of her family misfortunes a listener of sympathetic heart might have been moved to murmur: "What! Widowed only once? Poor woman!" in amazement at the perversity of fate which withheld from her a repetition of what was manifestly the greatest moment of her life. To her list of the good and great who had gone the way of all flesh, she had lost no time in adding the name of her late employer, and the circumstances of death in his case evidently made a special appeal. Of him, his life, and his passing, she talked continuously as she guided the detectives in their tour of the house.
At any other time Cheddington might have found it depressing, but as things were he welcomed it. Before they had left the ground floor he had learnt more of Scarsdale's habits than he himself could ever have known in life. And generally, so far as he could judge, it was a tissue of solid facts about the dead man, only occasionally interwoven with a silver thread of romance. The first occurrence of this, while Wilkins was examining the fastenings of the gun-room window, came as a surprise to him.
"Often he'd sit at that window in the sunset, sir, on a summer evening, looking out over the park," Mrs. Woodney said sentimentally, à propos of nothing in particular. "I've often wondered what was in his mind. Sometimes it's seemed to me that his heart was broken; that he was dreaming of someone he had loved and lost. But there, sir! He won't sit there again!"
Cheddington gulped. From his slight knowledge of Scarsdale, the idea of his being a victim to the tender passion was more than he could swallow. More probably he thought, the baronet's mind had been on the pheasant shooting; but he did not say so.
"It never occurred to me that way," he admitted truthfully. "Of course, he never married. And it would account for the big game." He waved his hand to the trophies which covered the walls of the gun room, in common with most of the lower storey. "Rejected by the girl he loved, he chose going for the lions instead of going to the dogs, eh? Judging by the number of heads, his disappointment must have been serious!"
Fortunately the flippancy escaped his guide. His chance gesture had started her on a new tack.
"Of course, sir, he didn't shoot all these himself. Some were given to him by friends he'd met abroad, sir, like Mr. Faringdon. Why, sir, these aren't a fraction of what he had! He was a great collector. Lots of his heads were shown in museums and places."
"I think I'd prefer stamps myself," Cheddington said gravely. "Do you happen to remember if Sir Arthur ever actually mentioned an unhappy love affair?"
"No, not to say mentioned it," Mrs. Woodney's tone conveyed that, if he had never put the idea into words, his actions had proved it beyond suspicion. "No, he never said anything, but I was always sure myself... And then, sir, look how his heart was set on his nephew enjoying the happiness which he had missed. I believe he'd always hoped to see Master—I mean, Sir Peter's children running about the house before he died."
"That would be why he was so keen on marrying him off," Wilkins observed innocently, and wondered why Cheddington choked. "You remember what Mr. Faringdon said—about the will—"
"Might we look upstairs now?" Cheddington broke in hurriedly, conscious that their conductress was all ears for this latest piece of information. "If you wouldn't mind leading the way, Mrs. Woodney?"
Perhaps it was the hope of gleaning further tit-bits which made her silent until they had reached Scarsdale's bedroom, glancing into the room where Faringdon had slept on their way. She was evidently prepared to indulge in further reminiscences, but Wilkins spoke first.
"I went over here thoroughly this afternoon, sir. Everything as it should be. Both windows open, here and in the bathroom—though the one in the bathroom is too small for anyone but a very small man to get through—"
Cheddington glanced round. Mrs. Woodney offended by the Superintendent's intervention, had withdrawn to a dignified distance and was waiting with a pursed mouth expressing disapproval.
"A small man, Wilkins," he murmured, "or a woman!"
Wilkins started. Like his superior, he was thinking of the footprint on the terrace.
"Yes, sir," he agreed softly. "But there wasn't a trace of anyone having entered—unless they flew. Under the bedroom window at least the stonework would be bound to show marks. There weren't any."
"And the door was locked." Cheddington looked round the room. "Where was the key found? Could it have been pushed under? There's a wide enough crack."
Wilkins shook his head. "Right over here in the corner by the bed," he answered. "It couldn't possibly have been thrown here—either underneath the door or through the window. But, you see, it wasn't far from where Scarsdale's coat was hanging. If he'd pocketed it, it might very well have fallen out when he undressed."
"Yes," Cheddington admitted the suggestion with some reluctance. "And, in that case, I don't see how anyone could have been here at all... But I don't know about Scarsdale locking his own door. And if he did break the habit of years, that's part of the puzzle. Was he frightened? Did he think someone was going to try to get in? Did he expect to be—?" He broke off, conscious of Mrs. Woodney's eyes upon them and walked over towards her. "You saw the room, Mrs. Woodney, before the body was moved. Was everything as usual?"
"Everything, I think, sir. Poor gentleman, he lay there just as if he had passed away in his sleep. Of course, there were the tablets by the bedside, sir. But I've known him take those before, and though I don't hold with doctor's stuff myself, he didn't seem to take any harm. He suffered with his head, sir. From the stomach, if you know what I mean—"
Wilkins scarcely listened as she plunged into a maze of reminiscences about her own, Scarsdale's, and most other people's illnesses. Though he was by no means inclined to agree with his superior's romantic view of the tragedy, going along in the wake of the other two he was wondering about the locked door. Suppose Scarsdale had had reason to fear an attack, on that particular night only, who was his imaginary assailant? Faringdon, Turton, and all the members of the household had been there for several days before, and so far he had heard nothing of any quarrel which might have precipitated a crisis. Except with Shelton. And, of the whole household, Shelton alone had just arrived the night Scarsdale decided to lock his door. Shelton slept in the adjoining room; he could easily have slipped out without awakening the household. Of course, the same applied to Faringdon. But, if Scarsdale himself had locked the door, so far as he could see, no one could have committed murder at all. Then again he mentally excepted Shelton and the doctor. For Shelton could easily, while he was in the bedroom, have slipped something into the glass; or the doctor, who had afterwards taken charge of the pill-box himself, might have given something which was not what it seemed.
By the time he had got so far, they had faithfully traversed the servant's corridor, and glanced into several rooms, including that where Turton had slept. Mrs. Woodney's company, and their extended tour was distinctly beginning to pall upon Wilkins. He had quite satisfied himself that, whatever might have been the purpose of their visitor who had left the note, she had not succeeded in entering the house. He was inclined to call it a day. But Cheddington's zest seemed to be undiminished. He interrupted an interesting discussion on lilies as funeral tributes to point to a door which the housekeeper appeared to have missed.
"Does that go anywhere, Mrs. Woodney?" he asked. "Whose room is that?"
"Well, sir, it's not really used. It leads to the attic steps—it's an attic really, though we generally call it the museum. You see, sir, poor Sir Arthur had a big collection—all sorts of things, far more than he could ever show in the living rooms. And he'd keep little things to remind him of his travels. I expect it would seem a lot of rubbish to you, sir—"
"Not at all. I'd be very interested!" Wilkins sighed as Cheddington opened the door and led the way up the steep staircase, wondering mournfully if the Chief Constable would continue his progress heavenward at least as far as the roof. Cheddington switched on the light and looked round the long, raftered room which evidently extended right over one wing of the house.
"Ah, yes," he commented. "Quite a bit of stuff here, isn't there?"
His statement erred on the side of moderation. Crates, boxes, baskets and miscellaneous objects of all kinds strewed the floor in every direction. Some had been opened; others, apparently, had not been touched since their arrival, and in addition to the specimens visible and packed, Scarsdale had evidently used it as a store room for some of his camping equipment. Cheddington pointed to a pile which lay at the stair-head.
"All Scarsdale's—I mean Sir Arthur's?" he asked. "A pretty mixed lot."
"Oh no, sir. Those were Mr. Faringdon's when he went up the Andes. He left them here, sir... And those cases were his last expedition—the ones that haven't been opened. Those were what he brought back his dead ones in, sir—"
"Dead ones? Why, he hadn't got any alive, had he?"
"Oh, yes, sir. Snakes and all sorts. He didn't bring them here, sir. They were given to the Zoological Gardens... Most of the rest of this belonged to Sir Arthur. That elephant's tusk was from one he shot in Africa. Those boots were Tibetan—queer things, aren't they, sir? He tried to go there, but they wouldn't let him. Those bottles have got lizards and things in them—in spirits, sir. That hatchet..."
Wilkins listened a little absently, reflecting with some sadness that, if Cheddington intended to search the attic and examine all the specimens, they would certainly be there all night. Some means must be found of interrupting the flow of Mrs. Woodney's loquacity. He looked around him desperately, then picked up an object near him.
"A shoe off the horse he used in Canada," she was saying. "That was the time he was nearly frozen..."
"I suppose this is the pump of the bicycle he crossed the Sahara on?" Wilkins interposed sarcastically. He worked it as he spoke. "It's broken anyway. Smashed it mending a puncture at Timbuctoo—"
"The Superintendent will have his little joke, Mrs. Woodney!" Cheddington explained as Mrs. Woodney's eyes opened in astonishment. Evidently she had never before heard this particular piece of history. As he caught the grim look on Wilkins's face, his heart smote him. "It's very interesting. I'd like to look round properly another day. I've just remembered an appointment—"
Mrs. Woodney cast a suspicious glance at Wilkins as he hastened to lead the retreat, though Cheddington lingered even then to throw a last glance round the dusty, lumber-strewn loft. Perhaps he had his reward, for the housekeeper, who parted coldly from Wilkins, displayed more animation in her farewell to him than one would have thought possible for her to feel about anyone who was still in the land of the living.
In the library, they had evidently interrupted something perilously near a scene; the situation was at least strained. In an armchair by the fire, Faringdon was making a strenuous pretence at reading the morning paper, while Turton, opposite to him, bit savagely at his pipe. Shelton had apparently been pacing the far end by the French window. Wilkins wondered whether he was on the look out for a possible repetition of the surprise visit. To his relief, Cheddington did not prolong the agony. His sigh of gratitude was audible as the front door closed behind them. Cheddington heard it and laughed.
"Yes, that's over for to-night," he said. "I'm afraid you didn't appreciate Mrs. Woodney... What a mine of material that woman is! What a trial it will be—in all senses of the word—if we get her in the witness box... By the way, I'll drive. I'm leaving Johnson here."
"You don't think that's necessary?" Wilkins asked in amazement. "Why, so far as our search has shown anything—"
"You forget our lady friend. She might return. Besides, if one, why not more? I'll arrange reliefs, and we'll have an all night watch."
Seating himself in the car, Wilkins was just comforting himself with the reflection that, if he was a sufferer through the Chief Constable's zeal, others would suffer more, when Cheddington's first words as he returned from giving the detective his instructions almost made him revise his opinion.
"Now for Arnley!" he announced happily. "We'll just call round there—"
"Why, I thought you'd finished for to-night." Disappointment was audible in the Superintendent's voice. "And I don't quite see what good—"
"Can't possibly finish before eight o'clock. There's that bazaar... Anyway, Arnley and the police surgeon are foregathering in five minutes or so to greet us. They'll have a more complete report ready then."
Wilkins grunted. "You still hold the idea that it's murder, sir?" he asked. "I should have thought—"
"The idea? Why, it's simply got to be murder!" Cheddington sounded shocked at the mere suggestion that it might have been anything else. "It's a murder, and, what's more it's our murder. I'm not calling in Scotland Yard. Why should they have all the fun?... When we came here, there wasn't much obvious indication except that cautious phone call from the surgeon, and the locked door. Now, there's the missing thousand, the eccentric will, the mysterious lady visitor, the banknote—Wonder if it's one of the thousand pound lot, by the way? We shall probably see when we ask the bank... There are the makings of a first class mystery here—if only the surgeon doesn't spoil things... Any of those three might have done it—Here we are!" He slowed the car to a stop opposite the doctor's gate. "Why, even Arnley might!"
Whether or not it was the result of a guilty conscience, there was undeniably more than a trace of uneasiness in the little doctor's manner as he ushered them into the room where the surgeon was already waiting. Wilkins accepted a whisky and soda thankfully, but Cheddington was obviously on tenterhooks, and eager to dispose of any social preliminaries.
"Well, what's the verdict?" he demanded as he splashed the soda into his glass. "What was it killed him?"
Arnley cast a half-scared glance at the surgeon, who reached to the table at his side and tossed over a bulky sheaf of paper.
"There's the report," he said. "That is, as far as we've got so far... See what you make of it yourself."
Cheddington took the sheets eagerly, but his face fell a little as he skimmed the first page or two.
"It's a nice report," he said hesitatingly; then he winced as a particularly polysyllabic sentence caught his eye. "Really an admirable report! I'll enjoy reading it—in bed... In the meantime, I'd rather you gave me the rough outline. What killed him?"
There was a moment's silence. Arnley and the surgeon looked at each other before the latter finally spoke.
"We don't know," he said simply. "At last—we know why he isn't living, but we don't know how he died. That's what bothers us." He paused a moment and glanced at his colleague. "I don't quite know how to explain to you. Perhaps it wouldn't be a bad idea if Arnley told you the results of his examination the night before again."
Arnley cleared his throat and thought for a moment.
"It's impossible, you see, Colonel Cheddington—quite impossible!" he burst out unexpectedly. There was agitation in his manner. "It's inexplicable! Never in all my years of experience as a doctor have I encountered—"
"Better begin at the beginning," the surgeon interrupted. "How was he last night?"
With an effort, Arnley composed himself, cleared his throat again, and took a drink from the glass in his hand.
"Well," he began, "I was called to Sir Arthur's house at three o'clock in the afternoon. At the time I was out on a midwifery case which showed some complications... Not to go into technicalities, it was not until after tea that I actually got to the hall. Sir Arthur had been suffering from another attack of migraine—or, as you might prefer to say, of sick headache. It had already passed when I arrived. I had previously treated him for the same thing on previous occasions, but not recently. I examined him with some thoroughness, not because the migraine itself was particularly disturbing, but at his own request. I found nothing seriously wrong with him, and on departing, left him, as usual, a box of tablets to be taken according to the instructions which I gave him—"
"That was the luminal?" Cheddington asked. "A poison?"
"Yes. There it is—on the table. One of the new barbiturate drugs. Actually, of course, it is a poison, but I must point out that Sir Arthur was accustomed to taking it. On one previous occasion he had, I admit, taken a slight overdose, and that had served as a warning. He was always particularly careful afterwards. I knew how much he could take—for, you will understand, the effect of most drugs varies with different people. And I can assure you that the sole effect of the number of tablets he had taken would have been an exceptionally deep sleep."
"Then you're sure that luminal was not the cause of death?" Cheddington asked and glanced at the police surgeon. "Was it a big dose?"
"More than usual." Arnley flushed a little. "But I'm certain—"
"It wasn't the luminal," the surgeon confirmed. "Better tell them about your examination, Arnley."
"I found him, as I say, generally healthy. Perhaps a little full-blooded, owing to his advancing years. On being called this morning, I confess that at first I thought he must have died of a cerebral haemorrhage due to the slightly raised blood-pressure. But the pulse was fairly good; the heart was regular; I could trace no serious organic weakness, no symptoms of approaching disease. He was, for his age, and except for the occasional attacks of migraine, a healthy man."
"That's what I always understood," the surgeon added. "Well, now for that report. Bear in mind there was nothing much wrong with Scarsdale, except that he'd a bit too much blood in him... We've made a fairly thorough examination, though we've still got to get some analyses done. We could find no organic trouble whatsoever—certainly no haemorrhage. There was no trace of any poison so far as our tests went. There was no sign of asphyxiation or heart trouble or anything which could have given rise to his death... But the blood—"
He paused for a moment with a curious expression on his face. Cheddington looked from one to the other impatiently.
"Yes?" he prompted.
"The blood—!" It was Arnley who answered him; then he too hesitated with a look of horror on his face. "It wasn't there!" he burst out suddenly. "It wasn't there!"
Wilkins sat up with a start. There was an instant's shocked silence, broken by Cheddington.
"You mean, in a manner of speaking—?" he began in a puzzled voice.
"I mean literally, it wasn't there!" Arnley's voice was almost squeaky with excitement. Two of us couldn't miss it, could we? It had simply gone!"
"All of it?" Wilkins asked incredulously. "But—"
"All." The police surgeon answered him. "Or very nearly. Of course, there was still a certain amount—but we're both ready to swear that it couldn't have given Scarsdale a discernible pulse. The appearance of the body was something like that of a man who has bled to death. Only there was more blood gone!"
"Bled to death Cheddington's face brightened. "That sounds more like it!"
"But he hadn't," the surgeon said seriously. "There wasn't a wound... And the blood—what happened to it? There wasn't a trace on the body or clothing—nor on the bed, nor in the room at all. He'd lost pints of blood. No one could have missed it."
Wilkins smiled. "Yes, I think I'd have noticed a few pints of blood scattered about," he said. "Well, what's the explanation?"
"We haven't got one," the surgeon put a match to his pipe. "That's the fact. We don't explain it."
Cheddington frowned a little. "I'm not exactly a whale on medicine," he admitted, "but I seem to remember reading somewhere—in a newspaper, I think—about a disease, or it may have been a drug, which destroys the blood. You've considered that?"
"You don't understand what happens in such cases. The blood, which means the red corpuscles, is simply destroyed as blood. The substances composing it remain. What we'd have found would have been blood diluted with watery matter... But in this case, what little blood there was, was normal. Only there wasn't nearly enough. Besides, his weight—"
He broke off, looked at Arnley and smiled. Arnley stepped into the breach hurriedly.
"You see, as it happened, Colonel Cheddington, Sir Arthur had been weighed that afternoon. At the chemist's. We've tested the machine. Well, he told me the weight. Then, at the post mortem, we happened to think of weighing the body—"
"Why?"
Dr. Arnley hesitated in some confusion. The surgeon laughed outright.
"I reckon myself a judge of fat stock weights!" he confessed. "I bet Arnley—and wouldn't believe the weight he told me!"
Arnley frowned at this revelation of professional indecorum. "However, the point was that we weighed the body," he said hastily. "It had lost several pounds in weight—in a little over twelve hours!"
"You'd expect some loss?" Cheddington suggested. "Evaporation—"
"Nothing on that scale was possible. Think for yourself—nearly half a stone! After our examination, we could only reach one conclusion. The difference was the weight of the blood which was missing!"
"You tested what blood there was?"
"Yes. Except for the luminal, that was perfectly normal—"
"Ah, the luminal!" Wilkins broke in like a man who has a sudden inspiration. "He'd taken an exceptional dose, hadn't he? Mightn't that have something to do with it?"
The surgeon looked at him compassionately, but it was Arnley who answered. The little man was thoroughly annoyed.
"Really, Superintendent!" he snapped. "If you're going to suggest impossibilities—"
"It's an impossibility anyway!" the surgeon soothed him. "You see, Cheddington, it's positively absurd... You can get another opinion on it if you like. In fact, we'd decided to ask you to get a Home Office pathologist on to it... You can be sure of one thing. No known drug or disease could produce that effect." He caught Arnley's eye. "Certainly luminal wouldn't. All that would produce would be increasing insensibility, finally resulting in death."
Cheddington was staring thoughtfully at the fire. "I'd hoped to keep London out," he said half to himself. "Oh, there's one thing. When would you say death took place—approximately?"
"That's always difficult to say exactly," the surgeon answered. "Here, it's particularly so. Because, when you get a body in an unprecedented condition, the post mortem signs may not have behaved normally. Say about one o'clock?"
"Probably." Arnley nodded. "Yes, probably. Say an hour on each side."
There was a brief silence. Wilkins again plunged in, on the one thing which he partially understood.
"You had the luminal tested?" he asked. "You're sure it was luminal? There wasn't any mistake—"
"Yes," the surgeon assented, just in time to prevent an explosion from Arnley. "There was no mistake. We tested it."
"You rule out natural death by any known means?"
The Chief Constable spoke after what had been, for him, an unusually long silence. "And you'd rule out suicide? Then it must be murder!"
"I won't rule out anything. We're faced with a sheer impossibility—that's all I can tell you. You can make what you like of it from the police point of view."
"Then, it's murder!" Cheddington decided firmly. "And, that being so, we won't waste your time any longer... No, I won't have another drink, thanks. We're going to be busy!"
Wilkins was distinctly dejected as they took their leave of Dr. Arnley. He missed the look of reproach which the doctor cast on him, too preoccupied with his own troubles to bother about those of anyone else. Cheddington was obviously jubilant, to Wilkins's intense disgust.
"I'd better go back to the station," he growled. "There may be some reports in. And there are those fingerprints and so on... If you'd drop me at the end of the street—or are you coming?"
"No." Cheddington answered cheerfully. "I'm going home to have dinner. Then I'm coming back—out here to the Hall, I mean. I'm not leaving it to Johnson or anyone else. Because, I don't care what they say—it's murder. And we're going to solve it by ourselves."
Superintendent Wilkins groaned as the car slid forward.
THE events of the day had scarcely been calculated to produce in Peter Shelton the state of mind which would permit him the sleep which he badly needed. Ordinarily, he slept like a log, and was inclined to smile at the troubles of those who suffered from insomnia; but that night fate seemed to have decided to exact retribution. Irritation at his treatment by Turton and the others, anger at the humiliating conditions of the will, and the unpleasant feeling that he was suspected of murder, if not by the police, certainly by the servants and others, combined to make him toss restlessly for what seemed to be hours, and when he finally dropped off to sleep it was to achieve not unconsciousness, but a succession of dreams which made even lying awake preferable.
It must have been well after midnight when he awoke, sweating with horror, after a particularly malignant specimen. Owing to the fact that he had been more than a little intoxicated, he could recall very little of what had happened after he had left his uncle and closed the bedroom door behind him; though he had deduced from the fact that he had awakened in bed and in his pyjamas that matters had followed their normal course. But in the dream they had not. As clearly as if it had actually happened he had visioned himself getting out of bed, opening the door and going out into the corridor without switching on the light. The last part of the dream which he recalled was seeing the light through the cracks of his uncle's door as his hand felt for the door knob.
There was a horrible plausibility about it which made him shiver as he lay there. His knowledge of the subject of dreams and the unconscious state was no more than rudimentary; but surely he could recall something about dreams being in some cases memories of events which had actually taken place of which the conscious mind had no recollection. The dream had taken him no further than his uncle's bedroom door. Had he really gone there? What had happened afterwards? Was he in fact, without knowing it, the murderer of his uncle? The questions recurred in his mind with a torturing monotony. Finally he got out of bed and opening the window lit a cigarette while he drank in the cool night air.
It was easy enough to tell himself that it was all the result of a disordered imagination, but far more difficult to prove it. Of course, his uncle's door had been locked on the inside; he could not possibly have got in. And yet the police inquiries seemed to prove that someone had murdered his uncle; for the more he thought about Cheddington's evasion of the point the less he believed it. A death from any ordinary cause, even a suicide, would have been a matter for the Coroner and the Coroner's officer, not for the personal attention of the highest police authorities. The locking of the door had not satisfied them; it satisfied him still less, for lurking vaguely in the back of his mind was a dim, half-formed idea about a key. Somewhere and somehow he had had to do with a key in connection with his uncle's room, and try as he might he could not remember.
Miserably he reflected that the whole business had been brought about through his own agency. For Arnley had been quite prepared light-heartedly to sign the death certificate for cerebral haemorrhage until the sight of the luminal had made him interfere. On the other hand, the interference might have been a point in his favour if he had himself demanded a post mortem; as it was, he saw himself in the light of a man who is forced into an action he himself has tried to avoid owing to another man's resentment of an accusation made by him.
With his uncle his acquaintance had been of the very slightest; he was conscious of little personal feeling, and refused to pretend to it. He admitted to himself that the family reputation and the circumstances under which he had come into the estate weighed with him far more than the actual death. His walk in the grounds that afternoon and evening had given him an affection for the place which he would not have believed possible. It was just such a house and park as he would have desired to possess, offering the prospect of sufficient shooting, riding, and fishing to reconcile him to the abandonment of a career which excited no enthusiasm in him. He looked out over the garden with a sense of resentment. The moon showed only fitfully through the clouds, but there was light enough to make out the dark fringe of the trees on the edge of the lawn below the terrace. Then as he looked he started to his feet, crushing the cigarette against the window sill. Someone was moving across the grass.
Exasperatingly, the vague light dimmed. He stood staring vainly into the gloom below, straining his eyes to catch another glimpse of the figure which he had seen. That, he was convinced, was not imagination. Abruptly his mind turned to the face which he had seen at the library window, and the paper which he had retrieved. Cheddington, he remembered, had kept it. Evidently he believed that it was something material to his investigation. Perhaps his doubts might be solved once and for all by the apprehension of the mysterious visitor. The next moment, without even pausing to draw on his slippers, he was in the corridor outside.
Once embarked on his enterprise, the need for caution asserted itself. If anything could be calculated to confirm the suspicions of the household it would be the discovery of its new master wandering in pyjamas in the small hours, and he had a feeling that any explanation would be received with scepticism. The old woodwork creaked abominably, but he gained the ground floor apparently without being observed. His plan of action was simple. To undo the ponderous fastenings of the front door was manifestly impossible; besides, the library had apparently been the objective of whoever had come the previous evening. With the stone floor making his progress noiseless, he made his way rapidly along the corridor. What, exactly, he intended to do he was undecided. He had a hope that the mere apprehension of the stranger would result in enlightenment. He was on the very threshold of the library when he stopped.
Someone, or something, inside the room ahead of him had moved. He tried to place the sound which he had heard, but failed. It was as though two hard objects had come into gentle contact. But now everything was still. Though he waited for a moment or two, there was no repetition of the sound. Stealthily advancing a pace or two, he peered round the edge of the half-open door.
Slater, perhaps, had drawn back the curtains of the French window when making his rounds; for the window showed plainly, and what little light there was filtered through it. It served only to reveal the outlines of the larger pieces of furniture, and it would have been easy for anyone to have remained hidden in the shadows. He waited tensely. Then, hoping to make the unknown betray himself by some movement, however slight, he whispered fiercely into the darkness.
"Who's that? Come out of it!"
He had not waited long enough to see whether anyone responded to the invitation when a sudden illumination came to him. There was no one in the room. The sound which he had heard was the closing of the window; the visitor, alarmed by his approach, had made good his escape, and, thanks to his own caution, had already attained a considerable start. With the thought he was making his way across the room, and in a few seconds had gained the window.
As he had thought, it was unlatched. The bolts had been drawn back at the top and bottom; only the catch held it, and he felt for it and slipped it back. The cold stonework of the terrace under his feet, and the chilly night breeze made him shiver, but he scarcely thought of it. He knew the direction which the owner of the face had taken previously; it was reasonable to suppose that he or she might have gone the same way again. Lowering himself on to the damp lawn, he started to make his way across to where he knew a small gate gave from the gardens proper into the park.
He had almost reached the cover of the trees when, with aggravating perversity, the moon emerged from behind the clouds. A glimpse of his own pyjama legs made him realise that pale green silk was scarcely an ideal costume for night work in the open air; but he had gone too far to go back. The next moment he gained the path, and the gravel called attention to another deficiency of his attire. He remembered painfully that he had hurt his toe that morning at the breaking in of the door. Reaching the gate he stopped, crouching in the comparative shelter of the high yew hedge, and looked through the opening over the park. Suddenly he started; then stood there motionless, without daring to breathe. A few yards up the path he had caught the crunching of the gravel under a heavy footstep.
For a moment all was silent. Then a low voice from the darkness made his heart jump in something between surprise and alarm. He recognised it as Cheddington's.
"You're seeing things, you ass!" There was more than a trace of impatience in the Chief Constable's tone, for his self-appointed vigil was beginning to pall upon him. "That's the second time—"
"But I'll swear I saw something—a white figure. Someone was there—or something-—"
The owner of the second voice was unknown to Shelton, but he had no difficulty in guessing who the strangers were. He had been an idiot not to think that the police might have decided to post a watch on the house. No doubt the figure he had seen on the lawn had been one of the watchers. He was mentally cursing his precipitancy when another thought brought him up short. The presence of the police outside scarcely explained the noise he had heard in the library and the unlocked window. All at once a realisation of his own position came to him. The police would want some explanation of his presence in the garden in that attire, and the more he thought about it the less likely truth sounded in view of the suspicions attaching to him.
"You're seeing ghosts," Cheddington said irritably as the inaudible explanation of his companion came to an end. "The White Lady or the Grey Friar or whoever haunts this damn place. I suppose it is haunted?... Look here, we'll go round the house once and call it a day. Nothing's going to happen now. This way—across the lawn."
There was something like enthusiasm in the constable's assent. Like his superior, he had had more than enough of watching, and he suffered from the handicap of recurrent rheumatism.
Shelton drew a deep breath as their steps sounded again on the gravel, then stopped as they reached the lawn.
Since he had not revealed himself immediately, the best thing he could do seemed to be to gain the house unobserved, go back to bed, and take no further part in the night's proceedings. All he need to do was to wait until the police had rounded the corner of the house; then he would be able to slip across to the window without being seen. He had just straightened himself ready to go when the faintest possible click of the gate latch made him turn hurriedly. Outlined against the sky between the yew bushes, he saw a dark figure. A feeling of bewilderment came over him as he took in its shape. The new arrival was a woman.
She stood for a moment in the gate, evidently listening. Shelton held his breath. Perhaps the intruder sensed the presence of someone near her in the darkness; perhaps the sight of the dark, tunnel-like pathway under the trees appalled her. She hesitated for a moment. Shelton could hear her quick breathing. By stretching out his hand he could almost have touched her. At last, as if reaching a sudden resolution, she began to advance quietly up the path. Next instant the darkness seemed to have swallowed her.
Shelton found himself in a dilemma. The sound of her footsteps was receding on the gravel; in a moment she would reach the lawn and, her own footsteps being almost noiseless, would certainly be able to hear him if he tried to follow, barefoot though he was. Somehow he never doubted that her objective was the library; though he wondered momentarily why she should be returning there. He waited in an agony of impatience until he thought she should have gained the terrace; then cautiously began to make his way up the path, painfully aware that his feet at least were suffering from the adventure.
Reaching the edge of the shrubbery he paused to look round. After all, the girl had not made for the library window. She appeared to be wandering to and fro on the grass as if looking for something. Shelton remembered the piece of paper which Cheddington had impounded, and her immediate object seemed plain enough. But the position was awkward. At any moment the police might reappear, and, though he could not have given a reason for it, at that moment he had no intention of letting them intervene if he could help it. All at once the girl seemed to abandon her search. She clambered up the low wall of the terrace, stood for a moment beside the window, as if surprised at finding it open, and finally slipped inside.
In an instant Shelton was hurrying across the lawn. Inside the room, visible through the partly-drawn curtains, he saw the flash of a pocket torch. The girl seemed to be occupied at the far end by the fireplace. That was all to the good. She was the less likely to notice his approach. The light was still on as he reached the window and looked towards the place from which it shone.
As he did so, he felt a wave of bewilderment. What he had expected he scarcely knew, but certainly not what he saw. The girl was kneeling on the hearth-rug, holding the torch in her left hand, while with her right she struggled with the contents of a leather handbag. Beside her stood a Burmese lacquer-work box, which, he remembered, ordinarily occupied a position in the centre of the mantelpiece. The lid had been removed, and, so far as he could see from the place where he stood, it appeared to be empty.
Her occupation was a mystery, but it was the girl herself who astonished him. As she shifted the torch, the light fell on her face clearly. Somehow he had been prepared for a dark, sinister adventuress type; the reality was the exact opposite. She seemed to be wearing a neat costume of dark brown, chosen, perhaps, for its invisibility. She was hatless, and a mass of unruly brown curls were tangled above a face which, even in the momentary glimpse which was allowed him, Shelton decided was the most attractive which he had ever seen. Certainly the visitor had not the look of a criminal; but equally certainly she was desperately afraid of detection. Evidently despairing of ever achieving whatever she wished to do with the handbag with only one hand, she laid down the torch. In the darkness which followed, Shelton advanced into the room, closing the flap of the window silently behind him.
From the direction of the fireplace he could hear the rustle of paper. Then the torch flashed again. Its beam swerved recklessly across the room as its owner prepared to examine the papers, and in its course struck blindingly upon Shelton as he stood by the window. He heard a startled gasp as the light vanished.
For a moment they stood facing each other, each waiting for the other to move. Shelton had no intention of altering his position. From where he was he commanded both the window by which they had entered and the door communicating with the rest of the house. Her way of escape was cut off. If he moved forward to catch her, she might contrive to slip past him in the dark, and get to the exit before he could intercept her. He was content to wait. Then he heard the rustle of paper again. A board creaked on his right, as if someone were trying to pass on the other side of the big table which stood here. Taking a chance, he lunged forward. He heard a startled cry; the torch clattered to the ground; then he was gripping an arm.
Momentarily his captive struggled; Shelton tightened his grip. As if realising the hopelessness of her efforts, she stood still. He could hear her quick breathing close beside him. Leaning down he felt for and retrieved the torch, flashing it full upon her.
"Now," he said a little grimly, "if you'd be good enough to explain—Ah!"
The cause of the exclamation was a glimpse of the papers which her right arm pressed against her side. Evidently she had gathered them up hastily, crumpling them anyhow, without waiting to put them into the bag. A corner of one of them caught tie light fully. It was a Bank of England note, and the others were obviously the same. The girl said nothing, staring at him with wide eyes. Releasing his grip on her arm, he pulled the banknote from beneath her arm. It was for one hundred pounds.
"Don't move," he warned. "If you do, I shall raise the alarm. "You can't get out through the house—and I might tell you that the police are patrolling outside."
"The police!" There was fear in her voice. "But I—I've not—I didn't mean—"
"I was going to ask you to explain why you were here," Shelton's voice was hard. "But I suppose that's hardly necessary now, is it? This explains pretty well."
He waved the banknote. The girl's pale face flushed with a sudden crimson.
"You don't mean—But I didn't!"
Shelton shrugged his shoulders. "You came before to-night," he said. "I saw your face at the window. I suppose you'd expected to get in then... What I don't understand is how you knew that they were there to steal! I suppose you must have known my uncle. Perhaps you were blackmailing him?"
"You—you—! How dare you say—?" To Shelton's surprise, she was genuinely angry. Her eyes sparkled indignantly, and it was not fear but temper which made her voice tremble. "Your uncle?" Her voice changed suddenly. "Then you are—you are—"
"Peter Shelton." He waited for a moment. "If introductions are in the air, perhaps you wouldn't mind telling me your name? And how you knew my uncle?"
"Your uncle!" She laughed with sudden bitterness. "I should imagine you were worried! Do you suppose I hadn't heard how you came back? And he'd planned so much for this visit—and you—"
She raised her voice defiantly. "Call the police! Call them! Tell them what you were doing outside—"
Shelton flushed. For a moment he was tempted to take her at her word. But the defiance faded as quickly as it had come. Covering her face in her hands, she burst into tears.
Shelton would almost have preferred her to remain in the bad temper which had previously enabled her to retain her self control. The situation embarrassed him. Short of giving the alarm, and having her taken in charge, he could not see what he could do. Stooping down, he retrieved the notes which had fallen to the ground. Their number made him harden his heart. Unless he was very much mistaken, this was the missing cash which the dead man had drawn from the bank. He almost wished that the girl would run for it, but she stood there, sobbing convulsively. The thought occurred to him that at any moment Cheddington and his colleague might complete their round of the house and, if they saw the light in the library, put the affair out of his hands. He released his finger from the button.
"Look here," he said as the darkness covered them again, "I don't see you've any reason to be angry with me. I wanted an explanation. The situation surely entitles me to know what it's about. You'll admit that it seems a little as though—I—I wasn't stealing the money." Her voice came falteringly. "You—you won't believe me but—I was putting it back!"
"Putting it back?" Shelton echoed the words stupidly. "But—"
"I can explain everything—" the girl was beginning again when Shelton's warning hand touched her arm. Someone was moving in the house above them. The girl heard it, too. Her voice died on her lips.
"Someone's heard," Shelton hesitated. "Well—do you want to make our explanation a public one? It seems to me that I'm entitled to hear about this. You've probably heard that I'm a suspected murderer. I can't afford to neglect anything which might clear me... You'd nothing to do with it. I hadn't. They'll think—Meet me to-morrow. We'll talk then."
He had spoken on a sudden impulse, and the proposal took the girl aback.
"You mean—you'll let me go—"
"Yes. Tell me to-morrow. Half-past eleven—down by the old lodge. Know it?"
"Yes. But—" She still hesitated. "But—"
"Right. Now, bolt! And mind that fool Cheddington. He's due any moment—"
Opening the window, he almost pushed her through, conscious that the sound of movement had almost reached the library door.
"I—I—Thank you."
He had just time to close the flap and crouch behind the table when the door opened. As he did so, he realised his error. He should have faced whoever had come boldly; have said that he had been alarmed and had come down to see— But there were the notes on the table. How could he explain them? At any moment he expected the lights to blaze up, in all probability revealing his hiding place. But they did not. Then down the passage, he heard the unknown's footsteps receding.
It was puzzling. Whoever had come down must have heard them talking. But he had advanced no further than the door. Shelton felt a wild impulse to know who it could have been, but he conquered it. His own position was too risky. Hastily snatching up the notes he crossed the room, felt for the lacquer box and crumpled them inside anyhow. Even as he replaced it on the mantel-piece he was wondering why his uncle should have used such a hiding place when he had the safe available.
The next thing seemed to be to regain his room unobserved. The unknown might still be lingering outside, perhaps waiting for him to do that very thing. Something eerie in the silent visit made his hair prickle a little on his scalp. With his hand on the door he hesitated.
A new sound came to his ears. It was the thud of boots on the terrace. He turned hurriedly. Then there was the click of the window latch, and a beam of light flashed full upon him. It came from the direction of the window.
A voice shouted commandingly.
"Stop where you—What the devil? Shelton?"
Shelton tried to smile, blinking in the dazzle of the torch.
"Oh, it's you, Colonel!" he said in what he hoped was innocent surprise. "I thought I heard someone, so I came down to see—"
"Heard someone? How long ago?"
Shelton was not sure of the answer. The torch seemed to put him at a disadvantage. He stretched out his hand and clicked the switch. He smiled again as the lights blazed up, more confidently.
"Oh, a minute or two ago, I came right down."
Both Cheddington and the constable, he noticed, were out of breath as though they had been running. The latter turned off the torch.
"A minute or two ago? Half a minute ago we were at the other end of the garden... See anyone? Why was the window unlocked?"
"Didn't know it was. I've only just got here."
"Nothing happened? You've not been outside?"
Shelton only shook his head. It seemed to him that the less he said the better.
"Maybe it was a false alarm..." Cheddington's voice was hesitant. "This fool's been seeing things all night..."
"It was lucky you were here!" Shelton said ironically. "What is this, exactly? Police supervision? You didn't tell us—"
Cheddington ignored the provocation of his tone. "We thought we'd better keep a look out," he explained. "In view of our visitor. You've no objection if we occupy here till morning? You never know—"
"Make yourself at home!" Shelton invited. His smile was now well established, and less hospitable than his invitation. "There's whisky on the side there—steady your nerves a bit! You want me to stay?"
Cheddington looked at him in silence. Then he too smiled. Shelton wished that he knew what the smile meant.
"Not at all, Sir Peter," he answered at last. "We'll be quite comfortable... Thanks, I think I will help myself. Good night."
He was squirting the soda into the glass as Shelton closed the door behind him.
SUPERINTENDENT WILKINS hummed cheerfully as he mounted the steps to the terrace early next morning. Unlike his superior officer, he had slept the sleep of the just for a full eight hours, and even the early telephone call from Cheddington which had finally dragged him from his bed had not destroyed his consequent good temper. Besides, he was feeling pleased with himself. He could rightly feel the pride of the successful organiser who, having arranged what strings are to be pulled can take his ease with the assurance that they will be pulled properly at the appropriate times without any trouble to himself. He grinned a little as Cheddington came towards him. The Chief Constable looked distinctly care-worn, and more than a little tired.
"Thank the Lord you're here at last," he greeted the superintendent; then glanced at the sergeant and constable who trailed in his wake, heavily laden with various packages. "This the camera and finger-print stuff? Good. Go along to the library. They'll tell you what I want there."
Superintendent Wilkins raised his eyebrows a little. "Anything happen?" he asked. "I wondered when I got your call—"
"Don't ask me!" Cheddington interrupted with a trace of desperation. "I don't know what happened, and that's a fact... Three times last night the man with me thought he saw mysterious figures in the garden. Each time I somehow missed 'em, and thought him different kinds of a fool. And now, this morning, it looks as if half the county had been Morris-dancing round the place. Oh, come along. I'll show you."
Leading the way along the terrace, he stopped at the puddle where he had outlined the woman's footprint the evening before, and pointed. Wilkins looked obediently; then looked at his superior in surprise.
"Why," he began, "surely—"
"Yes, we've added to our collection. I needn't have bothered about that pencil, by the way—luckily there's enough mud there to give quite decent prints. And they've all obliged by stepping in it. Item, one and a half large bare footprints (male). Item, one large sand-shoe print—also male. Item, query a second small shoe, probably female—all those while the place was being watched. That's not all. The woman who came to the window last night came back. She must have been simply frolicking about the grass while we weren't looking. And maybe you can tell me what all that's about?"
"The woman came back for the note she'd dropped," Wilkins suggested reasonably.
"Obviously. And the other two gentlemen chivalrously came out to help, I suppose—one of them barefoot. As a matter of fact I've a good idea about the barefoot one. I darn nearly pinched Shelton last night."
"Shelton? Why? Anything fresh on him?"
"He's too fresh altogether. Oh, he lied to me when I found him in the library without the lights on about four this morning. Said he'd heard a noise and just come down, and hadn't been outside. And his pyjama legs were muddy! Maybe you can tell me why he was waltzing round in pyjamas in the garden in the dark ?"
"Maybe the lady could!" Wilkins suggested. "Of course, I don't approve of midnight trysts in pyjamas, but—"
Cheddington jerked his head towards the library. "Come inside," he suggested. "I've not done yet."
On the big table near the window the two policemen who had preceded them were at work. Wilkins exclaimed as he identified the oblongs of paper spread out on the table beside them.
"Why, there's the missing thousand!"
"Yes. Or some of it—I imagine. I'd got one note last night. When I came in here early this morning, I found another—a mere £10—on the carpet by the table here. And when I started to look round the rest were so cunningly hidden that a corner of one was sticking out of that lacquer-work box there."
Wilkins had been reckoning up the total. He drew a list from his pocket and appeared to compare the numbers.
"You're a hundred and fifty-five pounds short," he announced. "Yes, this is the cash Scarsdale drew. In that box, you say?"
Cheddington nodded. "It was this morning. Only it wasn't last night—at least, the note wasn't sticking out. I happened to see the box. Now, who put it there?"
"Looks as though they've told us," Wilkins bent down to scrutinize one of the notes on which the sergeant had been working. A man and a woman. The man's prints on top."
"Yes. And I'll bet they're Shelton's, but we'll soon verify that. But who's the woman? And where is she?"
"Maybe I can help at that." Wilkins looked at the paper in his hand. "I dragged the bank manager out of bed last night, and, after a little persuasion, he gave me the list. There's not been time to find out what's been passed in other places, but one had come back through the same bank—a fiver. It was paid in by a chemist in the town—The New Pharmacy in the market place—yesterday. Well, then I got the chemist. Naturally he remembered who it was who passed the note, because he was a bit doubtful about accepting it. He made her sign the note—and, anyway, she had to sign the poison book. The name given is Sheila Mansfield, with a London address. I've got a description, and London are looking her up. And I'll bet that footprint fits her."
"I don't quite see—" Cheddington frowned at the notes; then looked up quickly. "She signed the poison book. When? What for?"
"Two days ago. In the afternoon. Apparently she came in and wanted a complicated prescription made up in a hurry. She was lucky to get it done at all, because some of the stuff was the kind of thing a chemist needn't have on stock. But this shop's just opened and stocked all up. The chemist himself wasn't sure what it was. He said it was for injection. And she bought a hypodermic and needle, cotton wool, bandages and various other stuff."
"Who gave the prescription?"
"It's here," Wilkins grinned as he handed over the slip. "Maybe you can read it. I can't—nor could the chemist. He might have been doubtful about it, but she gave Scarsdale's name as reference. Said she'd come back in half an hour when he'd verified it. Of course, he didn't bother as she seemed all right."
"Gave Scarsdale's name—and Scarsdale's money?" Cheddington repeated. "Funny if she'd made Scarsdale pay for his own murder, wouldn't it?"
"The surgeon said—"
"Oh, all that about no known drug producing such an effect? How about an unknown one? Can they swear there isn't a hypodermic prick on the corpse? What would be the effect of the stuff? Looks as though we'll have quite a lot to ask the doctors."
He frowned gloomily at the hieroglyphics of the inscription for a moment, then looked up inquiringly.
"Fingerprints on this?"
"Only the chemist's visible... But I don't quite get this, Colonel. Scarsdale draws this cash—an unusual thing for him to do. For some reason or other, he apparently hands it to her—which sounds a bit like blackmail. Alternatively, she steals it. Last night, having spent some of it, she brings the rest back. And Shelton, who denied all knowledge of the money yesterday, seems to have helped, her. What does it mean, exactly, except that we've a lot of questions to ask Shelton?"
"I don't know... Anything else? Those bedroom fingerprints?"
"Mostly Scarsdale's and Benton's. Anyway, they were all in the room. On the glass, Scarsdale's, Shelton's, Arnley's and some blurs. What you'd expect."
"So that's that... What have you got this time?"
"Don't know if it's worth bothering about. The original of that's at the office. It arrived at my house by the morning post. That's being tested, too."
Cheddington accepted the typewritten sheet and read aloud the three or four ill-spelt lines it contained:
"You bobbies don't know everything. Them as thinks they knows how the old squire died natural wouldn't if they seen what I see on the hall wall come midnight he died. You better ask some of them. You bobbies don't know everything."
He stood eyeing the sheet a moment. His spirits seemed to revive. "How true! How touchingly true, Wilkins! We police don't know everything... He doesn't give his name... I suppose you didn't write this, Wilkins?"
"Me? No!" Wilkins fell blindly into the trap. "Why should I?"
"The style's so like. And the grammar!" Wilkins grinned sheepishly as his superior chuckled. "Then, who did? We bobbies don't know everything. But we try to, don't we? What d'you make of it yourself? Cigarette?"
Wilkins shook his head at the proffered case, but instead he produced a pipe which he began to fill with the deliberation of a man who is thinking.
"Well," he said reflectively, "it might be a hoax—or a madman's ravings. There's hardly a crime committed when some fool doesn't write an anonymous letter about it. So there may be nothing in it at all. But we'll suppose it's genuine. It's cheap paper and poor ink—looks as though the inkpot's used once a year and watered when it dries up. It's printed, which doesn't give one much to go by in the handwriting, but I'd say the writer was a poor hand with a pen. And judging by the grammar, he's uneducated. It was posted, by the way, at the general. No one's likely to have noticed it. Unless there are fingerprints, I don't see that it gives us much more about the writer. He suggests—"
"Yes—I can read. He says we don't know everything, and that we ought to have been watching the Hall wall—or does he mean we ought to have been watching the Hall from the top of the wall?—on the night Scarsdale died. Then we'd have saw what he seen. That's easy... Only, what did he see? Pink mice?"
"You think there's nothing in it?" Wilkins was disappointed. "But look here. It can't be generally known yet that Scarsdale was murdered—"
"It can't, because we don't know ourselves... That doesn't say there aren't rumours flying about which we've not heard. But I see your point, and I think I agree with you... Let's see that sheet again."
He read it once or twice frowningly, his lips moving as if he were saying the words over to himself. Then he looked up with a smile.
"I think we can go further, Wilkins—from internal evidence. He doesn't give us his name—but maybe we can guess his occupation. Let me elucidate. The writer of this missive, epistle or communication is a bad boy. He doesn't like the constabulary at all. He dislikes them so much that he wants to tell them where they get off. Further, he is a gentleman of late hours and eccentric habits. He spends his time watching, or scaling walls at midnight. Or at least he's near the hall at midnight. Now, what is there in the neighbourhood of the Hall which might keep a gentleman out of his bed after midnight?"
"Why, there's nothing much round the Hall," Wilkins frowned. "There's just the park and plantations. The place isn't visible from the road at all. Of course, there's the doctor's house two hundred yards away."
"He might have been going for the doctor—but I doubt it. You can find out by asking, and anyhow, unless he were taking a short cut he wouldn't cross the park. No, Wilkins. An illiterate gentleman of late hours and unlawful occupation who frequents woods—what does that convey?"
"A poacher?"
Cheddington nodded. "Unless he's a burglar. But a poacher's more likely. All you have to do is to ask the village bobbies for lists of habitual poachers, get specimens of their fingerprints and there you are. That is, if the poacher's known to the police. I'd say he was. There's something in that repetition which suggests that on one occasion we knew too much for his convenience."
Wilkins' face brightened; then fell again. "It'll take a hell of a time," he said ruefully. "There may be dozens. And all the time it may be a hoax."
"Yes. Such is a policeman's life. Or, on the other hand, the author might be a cat burglar who, though on the point of breaking into the hall himself the night before last doesn't like the idea of murder. I'm told a lot of cat burglars are quite fussy about things like that... Failing the author of this, we'll have to follow his advice and ask 'them' as he suggests. Ask who? Presumably the wicked aristocrats of the Hall who, like the bobbies interfere with a man on his unlawful occasions. Well, we've done that once. Now, after last night's affair, we can have another shot. Particularly Shelton. I'll get that young man after breakfast and grill him thoroughly."
"You think he's guilty?"
"I'm sure he's lying—or did last night. That's something he's got to explain... As for his having done the murder, I tell you what strikes me about this business. First we have an extraordinarily careful killing, of a kind so subtle and difficult that we don't know if there was a killing at all! The murder, if it is a murder, was done by someone who hoped it would be accepted as a natural death—perhaps knowing Arnley's limitations and his dislike of making a scene—"
"Or perhaps knowing that he'd give the certificate himself."
"You mean Arnley did it? Yes. It's a possibility, for a reason I'll go into later. The point is that the murder is so carefully done that we haven't up to the present time found a single real trace of the murderer. The only spot where he seems to have tripped up is locking the door. Then, to-night, we get a whole series of funny things happening. But there's a difference. These people are leaving traces all over the place—behaving like the veriest amateurs. The lady passes notes openly when their numbers must be known; she and Shelton leave their footprints, their fingerprints, everything except their visiting cards. Do you think it's likely they're the same people concerned in both cases?"
"The answer might be that the actual murder was carefully planned, but that they got flurried afterwards. What was that you were saying about Arnley?"
"Well, assuming that this is murder, the method of it is so difficult and extraordinary that the murderer must be a man with special knowledge, or special means at his disposal. I mean that to commit a crime that puzzles doctors, a doctor would be the best person. So far, Arnley and Shelton qualify. I'm having Faringdon and Turton's past looked up—though it's hard to say just what knowledge either of them might have acquired in their travels. Then the lady seems well up in medical matters—Well, what is it, Willis?"
The uniformed constable who had been hesitating in the background cleared his throat diffidently.
"Well, sir, there may be nothing in it," he answered doubtfully. "But as I was coming along Mrs. Williamson stopped me—Mrs. Williamson who lets lodgings in Benham Street, that is. She said she'd heard of the squire's being murdered, and thought the police ought to know that the young lady who has the first floor front has been acting queer. She said she'd have given her notice, but that she thought she'd speak to us first—"
"How queer did the young lady act—or how did she act queer?" Cheddington asked. "Queerer than young ladies do generally."
"I'm using her words, you'll understand, sir." The constable flushed a little. "Well, sir, she's an artist, water-colours or something like that. Mrs. Williamson didn't mind that or her being late for meals. But last night she didn't sleep well, and heard something. She thought it was the cat and went down to the door. The young lady was getting out of her bedroom window—"
"Not in her nightie?" Cheddington was scandalised. "These modern women—"
"No, sir, she was fully dressed... Mrs. Williamson nearly shouted but didn't. She must have come back some time before morning, because she was there when Mrs. Williamson went to call her."
"Last night—?" Wilkins murmured reflectively, but Cheddington frowned at him.
"I can think of lots of explanations—innocent and otherwise," he said lightly. "But you were right to tell us, constable. You might give Mrs. Williamson the hint not to go letting out that she knows, and to keep her eyes open... By the way, Mrs. Williamson said it was murder. Why was that?"
"It's the story that's about, sir. Or one of them. Think the servants have been talking—and maybe the mortuary man. There's a queer story about—well, sir, about the old squire having had all his blood sucked out. And with what Mr. Faringdon said when he came round—"
"Someone's been talking pretty freely. Sorry. What Mr. Faringdon said—that stuff about bats, you mean? Might only mean he's a keen cricketer!"
"Yes, sir. But that's not what they say. It's a daft story, sir, but they're saying—well, that it was a vampire!"
"That all, constable? Right. Keep your ears open—even for nonsense." Cheddington's lips pursed to a whistle as the constable turned away. "Wonder if rumour has beaten us, Wilkins?"
"I don't quite get it." Wilkins looked puzzled. "You mean they're saying the woman did it?"
"No, that's not the sort of vampire—they mean the blood-sucking type. Which may be divided into subdivisions, the human or Dracula kind, or the vampire bat kind. You've heard of vampire bats anyway. They're a fact. They do suck blood—and can kill men and animals. Found in certain parts of South America—"
He broke off abruptly. Wilkins supplied the substance of his thought.
"Where Mr. Faringdon's just come from. And, by George, I seem to remember that when we were up there in the attic that old chatterbox—I mean, Mrs. Woodney—said something. Those boxes were the ones his dead ones were packed in. He'd brought live ones, too."
There was a moment's silence. Cheddington ground his cigarette out and spoke softly.
"It's nonsense. It can't be true. You couldn't train a bat and there'd have been traces—"
"It could fly in through the window," Wilkins suggested. "But then, why lock his door?"
Cheddington took a quick pace or two up and down the room.
"It is nonsense!" he burst out irritably. "And yet, in a way, it fits so darned well! The medical report says there's less blood there than if he'd bled to death—but not less than if it had been sucked out. We don't know how anyone got into the room, except by flying... As for that locked door, suppose Scarsdale was scared. Suppose something in the house frightened him, just after he'd taken his dose of luminal. He might shut the door in a panic, and lock it automatically—never thinking of the windows. Then, as the drug took effect, he'd be soothed down; think it was all nonsense and get into bed... Couldn't that happen? It's ridiculous—but there it is. It's as good as any explanation we've got so far!"
Wilkins grunted. "There'd be a wound," he said, "maybe not a big one, but still a wound. And blood round it. No, our vampire's a two-legged one!"
"They all are!" Cheddington's smile had returned. "All the same, we'll just have another look in that attic—to make sure. In the meantime, there's last night's affair. As soon as breakfast's over, I'm going to have a go at questioning the household... You wouldn't care to go and try the servants now, would you?"
Wilkins nodded assent. "And I'll find out who's been blabbing," he said a little grimly. "Not that we can really stop them... But if this gets out, the newspapers will splash it like blazes. Can't you see it?... How about the inquest? That'll start them anyway."
"It's only being opened and adjourned—for further medical evidence." Cheddington made a grimace. "Hope we get it... See you later."
Left alone, Cheddington wandered round a little disconsolately. He was feeling sleepy, hungry and disgusted. Slater, knocking diffidently on the library door with a tray emitting an odour of coffee appeared like an angel from heaven. Cheddington felt that even if he were guilty he would not have had the heart to hang the butler. He was finishing his second cup when the sight of Turton walking along the terrace outside made him gulp it down quickly. Here was a chance of getting one of them alone, before what happened became common property. He hurried out.
"Morning, Cheddington. You look a bit fagged... What's all this? Thought you'd finished with us yesterday."
"Then you've not been told?" Cheddington looked a surprise which he did not feel. "I thought Sir Peter might have mentioned it. He thought he heard something last night, and came down. As it happened, I'd got a man watching outside and each thought the other was—"
"You'd got a man watching? Look here, Cheddington, what is all this about? Scarsdale died a natural death, didn't he?"
"That's what we don't know yet. We can't take chances." The big man's worry and irritation were natural enough, Cheddington thought, and he spoke soothingly. "But that's not the point. Did you hear anything wrong last night? Noises—anyone moving about?"
"Good Lord, no!" Turton laughed abruptly. "Shelton started the yarn, did he? Well, he may have his reasons."
"You don't like Shelton? You think that he—?"
Purposely he left the sentence unfinished, but Turton evidently guessed its meaning.
"Oh, well, I can't go as far as to say that. We've not hit it off, that's all... But look here Cheddington, this is damn silly. You're simply keeping us all on edge. No wonder if young Shelton fancies things—"
"Well, it's had one good result. We've found your missing thousand—or most of it?"
Turton looked his question. Cheddington laughed and pointed.
"It was just in the lacquer box in the library—"
"It was not!" Turton snapped. "Faringdon and I looked in there searching for the will. It was empty."
Cheddington shrugged his shoulders. "That's where I found it this morning. Or rather eight hundred and forty-five pounds of it... I suppose as executor you ought to know."
"And I'd like to know how it got there. Shelton was here, you say, and your man found him. He didn't call your man?"
"Sorry." Cheddington smiled. "I'm here to ask questions—not answer them. You're sure the box was empty—?"
"That's easily proved... Here, Faringdon!"
Cheddington had not noticed that the explorer had joined them on the terrace and was watching them from a little distance away. At Turton's shout he came towards them slowly. In the morning light his ghastly pallor seemed to be accentuated. He looked a sick man.
"Faringdon—" Turton began, but Cheddington intervened hastily.
"I'll do the questioning, please, Mr. Turton... Mr. Faringdon, I was wondering if, during your search yesterday you happened to look in that Burmese box on the mantel-piece?"
"Yes," Faringdon looked from one to the other. "Turton and I both looked. He could have told you."
"And what was inside?"
"Nothing. It was quite empty." His brows creased in a bewildered frown. "Why, anything wrong?"
"Only the missing cash is there this morning, Faringdon!" Turton blurted out before he could be prevented. "Or most of it. What d'you make of that?"
Faringdon did not answer at once. "Well, it wasn't there," he said positively. "Someone must have put it there since we looked."
"Did you by any chance hear anything during the night, Mr. Faringdon?"
"Hear anything? Why, no."
"Your room's just over here—I mean the library, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"And yet you heard nothing?"
Faringdon raised his eyebrows. "I don't understand. What was there to hear? I was asleep."
"Probably it's a false alarm. Sir Peter thought he heard someone moving in the night. He and a man I had outside the house mistook each other for burglars."
There was something very like relief on Faringdon's face, Cheddington decided. His smile was a little forced.
"Sorry. Didn't hear a thing... I should think Shelton could tell you most about that."
Cheddington nodded thoughtfully. "Yes. I think that's just what I'll do," he said thoughtfully. "You'll excuse me?"
Both men stood staring after him as he made his way up the terrace towards the library window.
BREAKFAST at the Hall that morning had been a particularly silent meal. Shelton, whose injured toe had suffered during the night's adventures, limped downstairs to find the other two men already buried in their newspapers. Turton only grunted; Faringdon with his usual grave politeness, looked up to say good morning. As a doctor, Shelton could not help feeling that the explorer's condition was more serious than he seemed to think; but he had too much on his own mind to worry very much about the troubles of others.
Throughout the meal he was mentally calling himself all kinds of a fool. In the cold light of morning it seemed highly improbable that the girl, having got away so easily, would keep the appointment; he was nevertheless determined to do so himself, by hook or by crook, and equally determined to say nothing of the encounter to the Chief Constable. It was certain that Cheddington would ask for an interview, and, upon reflection, the lie he had told the night before would hardly meet the situation. He set himself to work out a revised version, based as nearly as possible on the truth. He had been sleeping badly; had heard something and gone downstairs. Finding the window open, he had slipped out for a moment, but, seeing nothing, had returned. After he had closed the window, he had seen the scattered notes on the floor by the table, had gathered them up and replaced them in the box on the mantel-piece, and was going upstairs again when he was surprised by the police visit.
It seemed an unduly long time before Slater brought to him the Chief Constable's request for an interview; but Cheddington's reception of the story seemed favourable. As a matter of fact, the Chief Constable, though he did not believe it for a moment, admired it very much, and his respect for Shelton's intelligence rose considerably as he listened.
"I see," he said as Shelton ended the confession. "And you didn't tell me this last night because you thought it would appear suspicious. Yes. I see. While you were downstairs you saw no one and heard no one?"
"Well, now you come to mention it, I thought I did," Shelton answered. Not knowing what was in his hearer's mind, he felt that he was lying better every moment. "While I was in the library, I thought I heard someone moving about upstairs. Perhaps I was mistaken."
"And, when you went outside, did you leave the terrace or not?"
"No." Shelton answered promptly, regretting next moment that he had done so. He was not sure why the question had been asked, or what the right answer should have been, but having plunged had to stick to it. "No. I just stepped out of the window and looked up and down."
Cheddington nodded in a satisfied way. His next words might have suggested that that point was settled.
"Tell me, Sir Peter, have you ever had any reason to suppose that you might walk in your sleep?"
Meaning the question half-sarcastically, in view of the mud-stains he had noted on Shelton's pyjamas, the Chief Constable was surprised at the effect which it produced. Every atom of colour drained suddenly from the young man's face. He seemed to answer with difficulty.
"No... I don't think so... I've never had reason to suppose so."
"You're sure?"
"Positive." The colour was coming back into his face; he even smiled. "Why, do I look like a sleepwalking subject?"
"You don't. But I had a reason for asking," Cheddington was sure that he was on the verge of something, but he could not quite see how to pursue it. Temporarily he changed his ground. "There's something else I'd like you to do, Sir Peter. When our interview was interrupted by your seeing the woman's face at the window—"
"Woman's?" Shelton queried promptly, guessing a trap.
"Or man's... I was just going to ask you to tell me a little more about your meeting with your uncle. Now, I wonder if you'd mind just coming to the library with me, and telling me as nearly as possible what happened, with all the details you can?"
Shelton hesitated. The suggestion seemed too much like a reconstruction of the crime to be very palatable, but he did not see how to refuse it. He rose to his feet and nodded.
"Slater showed you in, I think," Cheddington said as they went up the passage. "Did he say anything?" He looked down at the young man's feet. "Hullo! You're limping. Hurt yourself last night?"
"As a matter of fact, I stubbed my toe on something when we were breaking into the bedroom. But last night didn't improve it. It's pretty painful this morning."
"I see... Now, here we are. When you went in, where was your uncle? What did he do or say?"
Wilkins, writing busily at the table from which the notes and finger print apparatus had just been removed, looked up curiously, but said nothing. Shelton knit his brows.
"He was sitting at the desk," he said hesitantly. "He laid down his pen, opened a drawer and put something in—Cheddington crossed the room and seated himself in the swivel chair. He opened the top drawer.
"Like this?"
"No," Shelton said dubiously. "I've a feeling that he bent down more... The next drawer. Yes, that's it."
Cheddington looked inside. It appeared to contain nothing more exciting than a collection of unused stationery. He frowned.
"Did you and the others by any chance look in this drawer yesterday?" he asked.
"Why, yes. There was nothing in it but envelopes and things." A light broke upon him. "Then, what happened to whatever he put in?" he asked. "He didn't take it out again while I was with him. Unless he came down again—"
"It may be of no importance. What happened then?"
"Well, he slammed the drawer shut and waited until Slater had gone. Then he got up, and the row started. It's no use asking me to go over what we said to each other. I can't remember it—and I wouldn't tell you anyhow. After a bit, he showed me up to my room. That was about half-past eleven. I noticed the time."
"By this clock?"
Cheddington nodded towards the grandfather's clock near the desk.
Shelton looked at it and started. It was a quarter to eleven. Suddenly he began to be anxious. Somehow he had to get away in time for his appointment, and the rendezvous was over a mile away across the park.
"Yes," he said. "Well, I think that's all."
Cheddington raised his eyebrows. "You went into your uncle's room, I think?" he said. "Do you remember anything about that? For example, was the box of pills at the bedside?"
"I don't know," Shelton said uncomfortably. "You see, I didn't notice much. You see, I'd had a bit to drink. And by that time I was in too bad a temper to bother about anything but the row we were having. I can't tell you any more."
Seeing the obstinate set of the mouth, Cheddington changed his tactics again.
"Just look round this room," he said. "Can you remember if things are the same as when you first saw it?"
Shelton glanced round impatiently. He was beginning to be annoyed at this interminable examination, and time was flying.
"How should I know?" he asked irritably. "I didn't take an inventory of the furniture... Oh, I can tell you one thing which was different. That deer's skull on the top of the bookcase there—it was on the table. Slater shifted it there when we were going through the papers. But I don't specially remember that. Only I saw it moved."
He glanced again at the clock. Cheddington noted the action. If his victim had any special reason for hurrying, it was all the more reason for delay.
"I shan't detain you much longer, Sir Peter," he apologised. "But there's one thing more. You're a doctor, and, actually you were the first doctor to see your uncle after death... You disagreed with Dr. Arnley's view. Why was that?"
"Well, I hardly know. I think it was really the presence of the luminal, and the fact that old Arnley seemed to be trying to find a cause of death which would look nice on a certificate... No, perhaps it wasn't, entirely. Somehow the body looked wrong."
"It was," Cheddington confirmed unexpectedly. "You don't know the result of the post mortem?"
"No."
"I'll tell you in confidence. The doctors found no wound, no organic disease, no poison other than the luminal, but the blood was almost entirely missing from the body."
He had been watching the young man's face as he spoke. It showed only blank amazement.
"Why, that's absurd! If the blood was missing, there must have been a wound... But how do you mean, missing?"
"It wasn't there. And the body was several pounds lighter that it had been that afternoon!"
"But—it couldn't happen... Something's been missed." He shrugged his shoulders. "Obviously there's some mistake somewhere. If my uncle bled to death there must have been a wound. And, anyway, what happened to the blood?"
"From the position of the body, would you say that your uncle had died where you found him, or could he have been placed there?"
"It's impossible to say." Shelton was getting almost desperate. "Before rigor set in, the body could have been arranged. But it looked natural enough."
He stole another glance at the clock. Somehow the interview had to be ended at once.
"If that's all," he said, "I suppose there's no objection to my going for a walk? Or am I under police supervision?"
"Not at all. We'd have to know where to find you, if you were going away, but you're not under arrest, you know." The Chief Constable laughed as if the idea was ridiculous. "Shouldn't go too far with that foot."
"Oh, it'll be all right... I can go out this way, I suppose? Right. I shall be back before lunch if you want anything else."
Wilkins rose to his feet and looked after Shelton as, dodging the shield which had been placed over the footprints, he crossed the terrace and dropped on to the lawn.
"For a young man who's lame, he's very keen on a walk," Cheddington murmured. "And he's in a hurry."
"I didn't get what you were aiming at in that interview at all," Wilkins admitted. "You seemed to be jumping about all over the place, and letting him off whenever he was in a tight place. I don't see where it got you."
Cheddington did not answer immediately. He was watching Shelton. The young man had reached the gate leading to the park. As he closed it behind him, the Chief Constable saw him look round suspiciously before striking out at an angle to the path over the long grass. He smiled.
"Actually, he told me several things while we were talking," he said at last. "Though not all of them while you were here. He lied about last night, of course. I think I know why... I've not time to go into it now... A very helpful young man, Wilkins—though not always truthful. I think I'll have to get him to help us!"
Wilkins stared; then dismissed the last words as an obscure joke. "Anyway, he seemed in the deuce of a hurry now," he growled. "Almost as if he'd arranged to meet someone. Aren't you going to have him followed?"
Cheddington turned from the window abruptly. "No, we won't follow him," he said with a peculiar smile. "We can do better than that... I'm going to be busy for a bit. By the way, you might have a look in that drawer. I haven't time now. And there's the blotting pad. It might show you what he was writing."
"If he was writing—" Wilkins grunted as the door closed behind the Chief Constable. "And where the blazes are you going?" he asked sotto voce of his departed superior.
The question was partially answered a minute or two later. Outside in the drive he heard the self-starter of a car, and hurried across just in time to see Cheddington's big blue saloon sweeping down the drive. Through a gap in the trees he could see Shelton, already some distance away, making his way over the grass. He frowned. But for the obvious difficulty of following unobserved over the bare ground, he would have been tempted himself to remedy his superior's neglect by sending a man to shadow the young baronet; but that portion of the park offered no possible cover. He felt irritated. Cheddington seemed disposed to listen to wild stories about vampire bats, and to ignore the one person against whom solid evidence was available.
In such moments of leisure as the morning had allowed him, he had been trying to straighten out his own ideas about the case. He was inclining towards a belief in the murder theory, and, to his mind, the overwhelming body of evidence pointed to Shelton as the murderer, possibly in conjunction with the woman visitor of the previous night. He had tried to keep an open mind, but his only alternative suspect up to date was Arnley, though he had conscientiously set in progress inquiries into the histories of the various members of the household. But, at the moment, the annoying fact remained that they had no idea of how Scarsdale died, and upon that rock any theory of murder was bound to split. As for Cheddington's suggestion of the points which had emerged from the interview with Shelton, he completely failed to see them. He himself was inclined to think that Shelton had invented the story about Scarsdale's having put something into the drawer, but one had to make sure. He moved across to the desk and pulled the drawer savagely open.
In his impatience, he had used unnecessary force. The drawer yielded easily, and a perfect avalanche of notepaper and envelopes resulted. He scowled at them, letting them lie where they had fallen while he resumed his investigation of the remaining contents. But they, too, seemed to be nothing more exciting than unused stationery, disarranged only by his own violence. Piling the rubbish on the desk as he took it out, he had almost emptied the drawer when a splash of ink upon one of the envelopes caught his eye. It was less a splash than a smear, as though someone had been interrupted on the point of beginning the address, and had smudged the ink while it was still wet. He picked it up. The weight and thickness told him that it was what he sought even before he turned it over. It was sealed.
He stood for a moment staring at it before he slit the flap carefully and took out the single sheet of notepaper which it contained. So far, Shelton's story seemed to be confirmed, and what had happened when he himself had opened the drawer explained how the envelope had become hidden. When Scarsdale pushed the drawer to it had been shot right to the back, and no doubt no one had looked very carefully. He unfolded the sheet and read the few lines of bold, scrawling writing which it contained.
"Dear Langdon-Smythe," he deciphered.
"Perhaps you have not forgotten our conversation at the Ridgeleys a few weeks ago. By an amazing coincidence, I believe that I have stumbled upon something material to it. Have you still got the photographs, and, if so, could you let me see them? I don't like to say much yet, in case I am mistaken—though I think I am not.
"Yours,
A. Scarsdale."
Below, a postscript had been added, apparently some time later than the body of the letter, for the ink was a different colour.
"Quick as you can, please. Getting very warm."
As he stood holding it in his hand, he wished that the dead man could have been more explicit, or even that he could have finished addressing it. It should, however, be easy enough to locate both Langdon-Smythe and the Ridgeleys, and he sincerely hoped that the man to whom the letter was written would duly remember the conversation. The letter might, of course, be nothing to do with Scarsdale's death, but something in its cautious tone made him disposed to think that it was. Looking at the postscript again, an idea struck him. The well-filled paper-basket beside the desk suggested that Scarsdale's death might have interrupted the household routine sufficiently to make an investigation of its contents desirable. But for some time what he sought eluded him. The papers which formed the top layer seemed to have been thrown there by Faringdon and Turton in their search the night before, and as he thought of that he frowned again. In the absence of any positive murder evidence, Faringdon and Turton had had their own sweet will with Scarsdale's papers, and either of them might have abstracted relevant documents; just as Arnley had himself taken charge of the luminal, and might easily have made a substitution before it was analysed. From all points of view the case was unsatisfactory.
He was reaching the bottom of the basket when a torn envelope in Scarsdale's own handwriting rewarded his efforts. He read the address eagerly; then sighed.
"C.H.J. Langdon-Smythe, Esq.,
Hotel Royal, London.
Please forward."
It was provoking. Either Scarsdale himself had not known his correspondent's permanent address, or Langdon-Smythe was travelling and might be hard to run to earth. But the envelope told him something. Scarsdale had written, and sealed the letter some time previously. When Sheldon interrupted him, he had opened it to add the postscript and was re-addressing it. It looked as though some time between the writing of the letter and its being posted something had happened which had made haste necessary. It was at least a matter worth investigation.
With renewed heart, he completed his search of the wastepaper basket, but found nothing more. He had replaced the rubbish, when it occurred to him that he had not exhausted the possibilities of the drawer. Only a few envelopes remained, and these, upon investigation, proved to be blank and empty. He pulled the drawer right out. At the very back was something which looked at first sight like a loosely wrapped ball of tissue paper; but as soon as he touched it he knew that it was more than that. It was heavy, surprisingly heavy. He unwrapped it gingerly, then stood for a moment eyeing the battered piece of dull metal which was revealed before comprehension came to him. Flattened and distorted as it was, there was no mistaking it for anything but a bullet, and, moreover, he reflected, one which had been used.
He frowned at it for a second or two. Here was an additional puzzle, and perhaps a new piece of evidence. Why should Scarsdale preserve that particular bullet so carefully? If the letter had been put there just before his death, had the bullet? It might, of course, be no more than a souvenir of some particularly notable shot, preserved, like the rubbish in the attic, merely as a memento of some hunting trip. In that event, perhaps the talkative Mrs. Woodney would be able to enlighten him. Sighing at the thought of the flow of conversation his questions would probably call forth, he stepped out on to the terrace with the intention of taking the short cut to the regions where he had last seen the housekeeper.
His thoughts were on his latest discoveries, and it was the merest chance which made him glance up as he reached the point immediately below Scarsdale's bedroom. As he had ascertained the previous day, the projecting stonework made the climb an easy one, but the stone at this point had been badly laid, with consequent blistering of the surface. He had examined it carefully, and the previous day would have been prepared to swear that no one could have got in or out. Now, as he glanced up, he started. For even at the first look it was patently obvious that someone had been climbing there.
SHELTON was a prey to mixed emotions as he made his way across the park. Cheddington had accepted his version of the night's happenings too easily, and he found the acceptance itself disquieting. The incomprehensible result of the post mortem and unanswerable questions about the girl whom he hoped to meet combined to produce a state of mind which scarcely made for clear thinking. He was half way across the open grass land between the Hall and his destination before it occurred to him that he might be followed.
He looked back. He had an uninterrupted view for two or three hundred yards and there was no possibility of concealment. The police might be watching from the shrubberies fringing the garden, or from the avenue along the drive, but he was certain that no one could approach unobserved. Reassured, he glanced at his watch and quickened his pace, with frequent glances behind him. When he reached the plantation on the far side of the treeless patch he was confident that no shadower from the Hall could be within half a mile of him.
His choice of the ruined lodge as a meeting place had been dictated by the fact that it was the only identifiable spot revealed by his explorations up to date which seemed sufficiently secluded. Of its history he knew nothing. At some time, years ago, there had evidently been a gateway into the park from the lane which bordered it on that side, though the entrance was now blocked by tumbledown wooden fencing and, more efficiently, by the blackberries and briars which had grown up around it. Of the lodge itself, only a ruined wall or two remained; but the course of the drive was still discernible by the shorter grass in the clearing and in the wood itself by the sparseness of the saplings and undergrowth. It was an odd place, desolate even in the sunlight, and as he broke from the trees and came in sight of it he found himself wondering that the girl should so readily consent to it as a rendezvous.
He had seated himself on the edge of the low stone wall which had once bounded the overgrown garden before the explanation occurred to him. Of course she had agreed. She would have agreed to anywhere, whether she knew it or not, for the simple reason that she had no intention of coming. The thought disturbed him. He was feeling angry with himself when a crackling of the dry briars from the direction of the gateway made him jump up suddenly. As he turned round, a little cry of pain came to him.
After all, the girl had kept the appointment. At that moment she was struggling in the clutches of the thorns in the opening through which she had tried to force an entrance. As he hurried towards her she almost managed to extricate herself; then a long blackberry stalk, flying back, engaged itself in her hair. She was still struggling with it as Shelton reached her.
At the sound of his footsteps she looked up, coloured a little, then smiled. Shelton was puzzled by the smile. There was a quality in it which he had not expected, and which he was half inclined to think was mockery. He stretched out a cautious hand towards the offending branch.
"Let me do it," he said a little abruptly. "Stand still... Just a minute—"
Her answering smile, and the glint of the sunlight on her thick brown hair annoyed him unreasonably. He fumbled awkwardly with the thorns and scratched his hand. It took him longer than it need have done to disentangle the twig.
"Thank you very much!" she murmured politely and stepped back. Shelton noticed that she had abandoned the dark costume in favour of a neat tweed skirt and jumper. Somehow the adventure of the night before seemed a ridiculous dream. Shelton started to say something and hesitated, but she came to his aid with perfect self-possession: "Half-past eleven, at the ruined lodge!" she repeated in a thrilling whisper, then laughed. "And I'm four minutes late—but that, according to the comic papers, is a woman's privilege... You look as though you had been hurrying yourself, Sir Peter!"
She herself looked aggravatingly cool. Shelton was suddenly aware that his own appearance after his hurry across the park was probably less immaculate. He coloured, partly at the expression with which she spoke his new title.
"Had to see Cheddington," he blurted out. "About last night... He found me after you had gone."
"And you told him?"
There was no trace of panic in her voice. It suggested rather a mild curiosity in a matter which was of little importance. Shelton's temper rose another degree.
"I lied to him, of course," he said stiffly. "Said I heard something, came down and found the notes. He didn't say anything much."
"You lied to him, of course!" she mimicked. "The perfect knight—baronet, I mean!—rescuing beauty in distress!" Shelton's scowl made her smile; then all at once she was contrite. "I'm sorry. I oughtn't to make fun of you. Really I'm very grateful. It would have been awfully difficult explaining... For that matter, it still is."
Shelton waited. He had no intention of giving her another opening. A growing resentment made him set his jaw pugnaciously without realising what he was doing; but the girl noticed it, and made a comical grimace.
"Don't! You'll frighten me... Really, I'm trying, you know, but—you don't know how hard it is... Well, my name's Sheila Mansfield."
She looked at Shelton, as though half expecting that the name would be familiar to him, and seemed to wait for some comment. So far as he knew, Shelton had never heard it before in his life. Rashly, he determined to pay her back in her own coin.
"A very nice name!" he approved. "I suppose it ought to tell me why you broke into the Hall last night. Also how you came to be carrying some hundreds of pounds which my uncle had drawn from the bank a few days before. But it doesn't. Your explanation was that you were putting it back, wasn't it?"
This time the girl flushed. Her smile vanished and there was a sparkle in her eyes.
"Yes, it was—Sir Peter!" she said after a moment's pause. "I suppose you don't accept it?"
"Look here," Shelton made an effort to reduce the conversation to a reasonable level. "There's no need for us to quarrel—"
"Except that you began it!" she countered, but Shelton ignored her.
"We met under—well, unusual circumstances last night. You seemed glad enough not to meet the police then... My position at the present moment is bad enough. About half the neighbourhood thinks that I murdered my uncle—"
"Murdered him?" The girl looked at him with startled eyes. "You?"
"That's the theory. Anyhow, my uncle is just dead, under suspicious circumstances, and I seem to gain most by his death... Well, people know about that thousand pounds. I'm pretty sure Cheddington didn't believe me for a moment when I gave him that lame explanation last night. I don't expect you to be grateful—" There was a warning flash in her eyes, but he went on doggedly. "Only it does seem to me that I've a right to know about it. That's why I came here to see if—"
"You didn't think I'd come?"
"I wasn't sure. You mightn't have known the place... I only realised afterwards—"
"I expect I know it a good deal better than you—Sir Peter!"
"Probably. I found it only yesterday—"
"I'd wondered why you chose it... Though, as a matter of fact, it's a good place. People don't come here much. It's haunted. That's why the gate was shut up—or so the local story goes—"
"You live here, then?"
Shelton had been rather proud of the question, but the girl looked at him and laughed.
"No," she said simply.
"Anyhow," Shelton returned to the point. "I suppose if you came here you meant to tell me something—"
"And my time is valuable! I might have wanted to see what you'd got to say to me."
Shelton made an impatient gesture. "Sorry I can't enter into the spirit of this—this comic dialogue stuff," he said. "If you've anything to tell me—"
She looked at him for a moment tantalisingly. "I'm going to be good, really!" she murmured. "Well—Sir Peter—I'll explain as far as I can." She hesitated, and her voice had suddenly become serious. "My name is Sheila Mansfield. The name may not convey anything to you, but I knew your uncle quite well. A fortnight ago I needed money badly. There was no one I could go to, but I had to do something. I came to Sir Arthur and told him all about it. He was—he was—well, he not only let me have the money I needed, but made a proposition to me. I was to have a thousand pounds upon a certain condition. I consented to the condition, and he gave me the money. Then I changed my mind. I somehow felt that I couldn't carry it out. I hadn't heard of his death, but I knew his habits sufficiently well to think he'd probably be in the library after dinner. I didn't want anyone to know that I had been, so I went to the window. You saw me—"
"But you knew—in the library—"
"I heard of his death at my lodgings. I suppose I felt flustered. I was afraid that my having the money might be found out. I decided to go back that night and leave it somewhere—"
She hesitated. Shelton, except for his single interruption, had listened in suspicious silence. The explanation left so much unexplained; it was too obviously prepared in advance to leave some points carefully obscure. And it told him nothing. He looked up with a frown on his face.
"In fact, you were ashamed of something," he said. "What? You were afraid, as you admit... Why did my uncle give you the money? Blackmail?"
He regretted the word as soon as he had spoken it. She paled, and her fists clenched. There was a pause.
"I suppose your mind runs on those lines," she said at last bitingly. "If you have to insult me, you might respect your uncle enough—" She broke off; then her eyes met his defiantly. "Well—that's my explanation, Sir Peter. You can accept it or not. And now—"
"Please wait!" It was an appeal more than anything else. "I—I didn't mean that. It's absurd, of course... But if you knew what a rotten position I'm in and—after all, what you said leaves out so much. I can't help wanting to know—"
She looked at him and relented. "Naturally, you can't," she admitted after a brief interval. "But you needn't have—" Her voice faltered, and then she continued firmly. "That doesn't matter. Only, you see, I can't tell you... You least of all... You'll just have to take my word for it. There was nothing—nothing wrong at all."
"But why not tell the police?" Shelton argued. "You see, they're investigating what they think is a murder. Whether it is or not I don't know, but they're bound to go into everything. They'll find you, even if I don't say anything. They'll ask you questions. They'll think you can tell them something about my uncle's death... I know. I've been through it myself. And, you see, it's important for me to find out how he died. Now people have got this idea into their heads, they'll never believe—"
"I'm sorry." She did not look at him. "I—I can't tell you. I can see how awkward it is and besides—" She hesitated. "I liked your uncle. I'd like to help find out who it was... But I know, you see, that—what I can't tell you has nothing to do with it. Why should they suspect you?"
"I'm the heir. I needed money, and I quarrelled with him... Besides, there's something queer about the death itself, and, as I'm a doctor, they seem to think I'd be able to kill people easily." He laughed mirthlessly. "That sounds silly. It's how their minds work."
"But in the town—there's a more curious story than your having killed him... They're talking about vampires—you know, sucking blood and so on."
Shelton stared at her. "But that's ridiculous!" he said. "Still—"
"You mean, there is some reason?"
"Actually, there is. But it's nonsense. The doctors must have made a mistake. It couldn't happen."
She shivered and looked nervously round. "I don't like to think of it," she said at last. "And here, particularly—don't talk of it!"
Shelton glanced from side to side. The ruin seemed all at once to have become more gloomy, even in the sunlight. At night, he could understand that people would imagine things about it; but he himself had no faith in ghosts. He smiled as he met the girl's eyes.
"Why here, particularly? There's no vampire legend about this, is there?"
She tried to return the smile. "No—not vampires! But two people are supposed to have died... Oh, it's absurd, of course!"
"Then you know this part well? But you don't live here?"
"My home's in London..." She stopped, apparently on the verge of saying more. "I ought to go back there, I suppose. But now—well, if the police do start asking awkward questions, I don't want to leave you alone. Couldn't you find the murderer?"
"I find him?" Shelton repeated. "If the police can't—"
"I'll help you," she interrupted impulsively; then she reddened as she saw his expression. "Oh, I know that you think I should be no good, but as a matter of fact there might be a lot I could do. You see, I know your uncle's friends and so on, and probably more about his past life than anyone else—"
Shelton raised his eyebrows inquiringly, but she did not volunteer an explanation. She refused to meet his eyes.
"At the moment it's between me, Turton, Faringdon, the household staff and old Arnley," he said. "Any suggestions—I mean, alternatives, to me?"
He had made the suggestion as a feeble joke, but she answered seriously.
"I suppose you mean that the murder was committed by someone inside the house—or familiar with it? That would include me... I think that the servants are beyond suspicion. Except that—well, I suppose you know that another master of Benton's was found dead in bed? It was brought in as suicide—"
"Was it?" Shelton looked at her in surprise. "And this was very nearly accepted as natural death. No, I'd not heard that. But it might be coincidence."
"And there's Mrs. Woodney. You know, I always thought that there was something a little morbid about her... It's almost as if she had a fascination about ghastly subjects, isn't it? She might be a little mad—" She stopped, seeking for words. "I don't mean she'd do it deliberately. But don't you think she might have done it without knowing what she was doing—What's the matter?"
Shelton's face had suddenly set tensely. He tried to laugh.
"You see, I might myself," he answered. "I wasn't very sober... And last night I dreamed—well, I dreamed that I went to my uncle's door—then I woke up. And the devil of it is that I've a sort of a distant memory about the key... The door was locked, you know. That's what makes it impossible—But I'm sure I didn't, really—"
"Of course you dreamed," Sheila Mansfield broke in. "Who wouldn't? I'll dream myself to-night, I expect... That's nothing. But Mrs. Woodney is always talking about corpses. It's not impossible for her. Mad people can be very cunning."
Shelton shook his head, unconvinced. "She's not mad," he rejoined. "Only a bit melancholy... I'm speaking as a doctor when I say that. You know Turton and Faringdon? What about them?"
"Nothing—I mean, no reason why they should murder anyone. And I can't imagine Dr. Arnley having the courage. Though, you know, his practice is going down and he needs money?"
"He gets five hundred under the will... But I agree with you. I can't see him doing it... If we did this detective stuff, I don't see how we'd set to work—"
"Let's both think it over. I'm sure there's something—Oh! What's that?"
She was staring over his shoulder toward the ruined lodge. He turned quickly. There was nothing but the grey walls and the trees behind. He looked at her inquiringly.
"Something—something moved," she whispered. "By the bushes there—I saw it I But I wasn't looking until too late—"
Shelton laughed. "After this conversation, I could almost see things myself!" he reassured her. "No, probably it was a bird or something... You know, we're talking about ghosts and murders and so on. It makes one creepy, doesn't it?... You'd really like to try this detective stuff?"
She smiled a little as she nodded. Then the smile vanished, and she glanced again towards the bushes.
"But there was something—she began. She caught his expression and broke off. "Yes, I'd like to help."
"Then I must see you again," Shelton said quickly. "I'll have to get back—or they'll think I've bolted." He laughed shortly. "Meet me this afternoon. About three—if I'm still at liberty!"
"Yes—but not here." She glanced round again. "I don't care if it is silly... No. After all, I'd better not. I mean this afternoon. To-morrow—"
"To-morrow, at half-past ten? And where?"
"There's a gate into the park south of the drive—you know it? I'll be there..." She started as—though something had suddenly occurred to her, and to Shelton's surprise, gave a little laugh. "It's nothing," she explained. "I just thought—I'll go now."
"You thought?" Shelton put a detaining hand on her arm as she turned. "Tell me."
She looked round, and the mischievous light was again in her eyes.
"I thought perhaps I'd been too precipitate last night," she explained equivocally. "Perhaps I needn't have done it!"
Shelton was still puzzling over this when she broke from his hold laughing, and in a moment was running towards the gap by which she had come. Before he could move she had reached it, and negotiating it successfully turned to wave. The bushes hid her as he waved in answer.
For a moment he stood staring; then he laughed. On his way there he had wondered if the interview with the girl would ever take place. Now that it had happened, the mystery was greater than ever. But she had promised to meet him again, and this time he had no doubts that her promise would be made good. He was still puzzling over the riddles presented by her explanation and not least by her parting words as he turned to retrace his steps through the wood.
He had plenty to think about. And, the more he thought, the more bewildering seemed her familiarity with his uncle's household and affairs. Sir Arthur had been almost a woman-hater in later life, after a lady-killing youth. So much he knew from family talk; but it did not help him to solve the problem of the girl. He believed in her innocence, not only so far as his uncle's death was concerned, but of anything discreditable. And yet there was the thousand pounds, surreptitiously transferred in cash, and as stealthily returned—
His thoughts broke off suddenly. Right in his path, from behind a low-growing tree, a man had suddenly emerged only a few yards away. He stood there looking at Shelton, as if waiting for him to draw level. Shelton was surprised. The man had the look of a gamekeeper, and yet he was no one employed by the estate, at least so far as his brief acquaintance with it went. His next thought was that if the man were employed, one of his first improvements would be to replace him; for there was something repulsive in the little black eyes which gleamed under the cap brim. He reminded Shelton of a rat, with a rat's intelligence, and a rat's viciousness. He grinned as Shelton came nearer, and touched his cap with a gesture which might have been civility, but was more like insolence.
"Morning, Sir Peter," he said. "Looking round, sir?"
"Morning. What are you doing here?" Shelton had just remembered the movement which the girl had seen, and the idea that the fellow might have been a witness to their meeting made him speak more peremptorily than he might otherwise have done. "You're not a gamekeeper, are you?"
The man grinned more widely. He did not answer immediately, and it seemed to Shelton as if he were enjoying a private joke.
"No, sir, not just what you'd call a gamekeeper," he answered with a note in his voice which annoyed Shelton. "Though I wouldn't say I didn't know more about game than many that is—"
"Then what the devil are you doing here? You know you're trespassing?"
Shelton welcomed someone upon whom he could vent his feelings. But the man only touched his cap again and smiled. Again Shelton was conscious of the quick black eyes studying him.
"No, sir," he said meekly. "I saw you cross the park, sir, and I said to myself, 'There's a word I'd like with the young squire,' so in I came. 'Tisn't trespassing when you go to look for the owner, sir, I'd say—and you're the owner now that old Sir Arthur's gone, sir."
"Well. What did you want to say?"
Shelton's tone was brusque, and yet he felt some misgivings. The man annoyed him; but if what he said was correct, he had most certainly witnessed the meeting between Sheila Mansfield and himself. Perhaps he had even overheard something of what passed between them. At the thought, Sheldon's caution vanished when it should have increased.
"See here," he said as the other hesitated, "you're on property where you've no right to be. If you've any business with me, you'd better say it."
"Not to say business, sir. And, seeing you were with the young lady—and looked like wanting to be private, sir—Now, I couldn't interrupt you, could I? I had to wait a bit, hadn't I?"
He grinned again. Shelton's fist clenched. The events of the last few days had put him in the state of mind when he was longing to hit someone, and hit him hard. The man backed away.
"No, sir, seeing you was talking of money, and Sir Arthur's death, and people thinking 'twas you that done it—"
Shelton restrained himself with an effort. Evidently the man with whom he had to deal had overheard a good part of what had been said. For the girl's sake as well as his own, there could be no harm in finding out what he wanted.
"Well?" he asked.
"I'm a man as goes about a bit, sir," the man said after a pause. "I see things more than most—things that might be worth money in the right place. And I'm not over fond of the police myself. The night Sir Arthur died—"
He broke off exasperatingly. Shelton longed to choke the truth out of him. Perhaps the man guessed it, for he stepped back a pace or two.
"The police'd like to know a lot—but I'm not over and above friendly with the police," he went on with annoying slowness. "Not but what I could tell 'em. On the other hand, sir, it might be more worth my while to tell things to a young gentleman like yourself—or not to tell them at all, as the case might be. A young gentleman like you might make it worth while to tell—or not to say nothing. It's as you think, sir."
"You mean—you're trying to blackmail me?" Shelton was at white heat. "If you dare—"
"'Twasn't about your meeting with the young lady I was speaking, sir," the man said placatingly. "Though I wouldn't say it mightn't be worth my while to mention it to the Colonel. But the night Sir Arthur died—well, maybe, sir, you'd pay to hear what I saw then?"
With an effort Shelton controlled himself. All his instincts favoured a fight, but two considerations stopped him. The man had a double hold. There was the veiled threat of telling the police about the meeting which he had just witnessed, and Shelton was only too well aware that a proper selection from what had been said would be eagerly received. But there was also the promise of learning something about the murder. He might have risked the blackmail, for the mere satisfaction of getting one good blow home into the man's grinning face, but the other possibility restrained him.
"If you've anything worth saying, I'll pay you," he managed to say after a distinct pause. "How much d'you want? What is it?"
But the man shook his head. "I'd not say I wouldn't sooner deal with a gentleman like yourself," he said slowly, "but there's others have more reason for paying. They've the first bid. And if I can't make 'em see what's right, maybe I'll deal with you."
He grinned. "And maybe I'll deal with you whether they do or no, sir!"
"And suppose I go to the police?"
The man looked round to right and to left before he spoke.
"I'm no friend to the police myself, sir. I don't say as they'd believe me—but you're sure they'd believe a young gentleman like yourself, sir?"
The trouble was that Shelton was not. If he went to the Chief Constable with the story, he would do so with the knowledge that he had just lied to him, and with the strong suspicion that he had been found out. And the man would say what he had overheard between Shelton and Sheila Mansfield.
"No, sir!" he continued with assurance. "We'd deal better together, but not now, sir. Say to-night, if you like, sir. If you was to come to my cottage—my cottage just nigh here, sir—round about nine o'clock? We'd know how we stood then, and you'd hear something you'd like to hear—if you brought the cash. And I'm not selling cheap! Gunby's the name, sir—Joe Gunby."
"But look here," Shelton began, realising the difficulties of the proposal. "I can't—"
The man had not waited to hear his objection. As it left his lips, Gunby touched his cap with ironical respect and, turning, in a moment was darting through the trees with a speed which was hardly credible. Shelton took a fruitless step or two after him; then he stopped. The blackmailer was already out of sight, and he knew the ground. It would be better to keep the suggested meeting, and then, Shelton promised himself, there should be a reckoning. He smiled grimly in anticipation as he set off across the park to the Hall.
MORE than half a dozen little piles of manuscript littered the Superintendent's desk. Puffing his pipe he was contemplating them gloomily. The papers represented some hours of work by himself and a number of other people, and he had been trying all the afternoon to reach some plausible conclusion from the evidence which they contained. So far no light had dawned, and he was just thinking of giving up the task as the Chief Constable entered.
"Busy?" Cheddington asked as the Superintendent removed his feet from the desk. "What's all this? Going to have a paper chase?"
Wilkins sighed. Selecting one of the piles of paper he held it out for his superior's inspection. Cheddington took it.
"Hullo! Dossiers? Going all French, aren't you? Ah, this is Shelton's?"
He read for a moment or two in silence, skimming the pages quickly; then looked across at its author.
"Well? Nothing in this? Actually more favourable than I'd imagined."
"That's it," Wilkins agreed. "He seems to have a name for being a bit wild without much reason. A certain amount of natural noisiness, and not specially addicted to hard work. No more. In fact, in a case like this, I'd rather be inclined to rule him out of it. He might climb the Eros statue or smash a few windows, but he's not the sort of person to plan anything like what we're up against."
Cheddington nodded assent. "In my view, Shelton's out of it," he said. "Or, if he did it, he doesn't know it himself. Sub-conscious mind and all that stuff. As it happens, in one particular I know more about that than he does. No. Acquit Shelton of being anything but an ass—and young, very young. Next?"
"Faringdon's." Wilkins passed it over. "Most unsatisfactory. You see, it's not much more than a record of dates. At this notice we've not had time to find people who knew him abroad. So it's little more than a record of when he set out and returned to and from a lot of outlandish places in South America principally—Patagonia, the Andes, Peru, the upper Amazon, and so on. But we don't know what he did there, except for a lot of scientific stuff that's no use to anyone."
Cheddington was reading. "Educated—hmm. Old public school-boy and so on. Seems to have started exploring young, under good tuition. Not married. Not excessively well off, but seems to get along... Hullo! 'Contributions to the Zoological Gardens'—you went into that?"
"Yes," Wilkins admitted. "Though I don't believe there's anything in it. You see, he has brought back quite a lot of live stuff at various times, but there's no record of any vampire bats. But he might have kept that quiet. And the region he's come back from has them. I've looked that up... Besides you may notice, he's a whale on botany and that stuff. He might have some funny drug up his sleeve."
"Motive?" Cheddington asked.
"There again we're at sea. He certainly had some kind of arrangement with Scarsdale over one or two of his expeditions; but it seems to have been an irregular, verbal kind of affair, known only to Scarsdale and himself—and now only to Faringdon." Wilkins sucked at his pipe. "You see, when all is said and done, there are possibilities of treasure in that region—pirate hoards, the Incas and so on. If he had found anything—"
"Wilkins, you're getting more romantic than I am! If a buried Inca treasure is going to be the motive for a murder in England—"
"I'm not saying it is," the Superintendent denied hastily. "Only there's this much in favour, that he seems to have kept pretty quiet about his last trip... But, you see, if he had a motive, he'd as good a chance of doing it as Shelton—better, because he knew the house and might have had a key—"
"As a matter of fact, I think the key which was found inside the room locked the door," Cheddington intervened. "In fact, I'm almost sure of it."
"I suppose that's in his favour—"
"It's not. Quite the reverse. It points to him rather than otherwise."
Wilkins looked mystified, and waited a moment hoping for an explanation. Since none seemed to be forthcoming he continued.
He might have had the necessary knowledge or means. He has against him his fainting when he saw the corpse, and the fact that he seemed to avoid looking at it. And then, the whole of this vampire story starts with him... Against it is that he seems to have urged Shelton to have the door opened."
"Might have been guilty conscience—wanted to get it over and so on. Or perhaps he particularly wanted to be there when the door was opened. Perhaps there was something he had to do in the room."
Wilkins looked his interrogation, and Cheddington this time volunteered an explanation. "I've been over all the accounts pretty carefully. Now, Turton and Shelton both seem to have gone right up to the bed, keeping an eye on each other. Slater went to draw the curtains. Only Faringdon—and Benton—lingered in the background. And, incidentally, both had been eager for breaking in."
"If it comes to that, so was Turton—as eager as any," Wilkins began. "But I don't see—"
"Don't you? We've tended to assume that there had to be another key to open that door. But just try and imagine how things were. Anyone could have locked the door outside and pushed it underneath with a practical certainty that, when the body was first found, he'd have a chance to move it. It's my belief that's what the murderer intended to do. Only I don't think he did it... How about Turton?"
"Oh—much the same as Faringdon—from the point of view of information about his travels, I mean. His hunting ground has been Africa, that's all... No education worth mentioning—worked his way to South Africa, knocked about a bit and did most things; finally, before he knew Scarsdale, struck it rich and sold out. Since then, he's just knocked about for the fun of the thing. That's how he met Scarsdale... No motive whatever, so far as we've found. Less opportunity than Shelton or Faringdon, and as little as any member of the staff. Nothing much against him that I can see."
"Arnley? I see you've got him... Ah, motive in the will, of course. Opportunity for administering drugs—if drugs were the cause of Scarsdale's condition. The doctors say they weren't. But it strikes one as a coincidence that whatever else it was should happen the night he'd taken so large a dose... Supposing it wasn't a poison, mightn't the knowledge that a drug had been given be an indication?"
"I don't quite gather—"
"Look here. Suppose—oh, suppose one of my vampire bats has to be introduced into the room. I know they say that the bite's painless and doesn't rouse a sleeper. But shouldn't I, as the murderer, feel much happier if I knew my subject had taken a good stiff sleeping draught? Arnley certainly, perhaps Shelton, Turton, Faringdon and Benton knew. No one else so far as I can discover."
Wilkins digested this idea in silence, frowning a little. "Perhaps," he admitted grudgingly. "But still it all turns on the question of how Scarsdale died... I've asked the surgeon to look in again, by the way. If he can't tell us what did happen, he might know what didn't. Let's hope the London man is better."
Cheddington nodded absently. He was glancing over the papers and noticed with a smile that Wilkins's zeal had even included Mrs. Woodney. Wilkins caught his eye and looked confused.
"That's just a precaution," he said hastily. "She's quite harmless, of course... All the same, there have been a good many deaths in her life—"
An expression of ecstatic joy spread over the Chief Constable's face.
"Converted!" he almost shouted. "No motive, no opportunity, no evidence whatever! But you're finding some—you'll hang her yet! By the way, does one thing about the bulk of these people occur to you? I mean, why should any of them, barring Shelton, decide to bump Scarsdale off just at this moment? On the day before yesterday, I mean, of all the days there are in the year?"
"I don't get you. What was there, particularly, about the day before yesterday?"
"That's what I'm asking... My point is this. Nearly all the people with whom we have to deal have known Scarsdale for years and never murdered him before. What made them suddenly decide to do it, and why choose any given day?"
"I don't see how we can tell." Wilkins thought for a moment. "There seem to be three things at the moment. First, the large dose of luminal, giving a good opportunity. That by itself might have decided the moment at which the murder was committed, but it doesn't tell you anything about motive... Then there's Shelton's quarrel with his uncle—or, for that matter, Shelton's return home at all. You seem to have rejected the idea of Shelton's having done it, and I'm inclined to agree on general grounds. But isn't it just possible that he's the victim? The actual murderer could have planned the quarrel—and Shelton himself says he was tricked into getting tight which would be sufficient grounds. Supposing someone had an interest in keeping away a member of the family who might get Scarsdale's confidence?"
"A fairly broad hint at Turton or Faringdon—unless you see the sinister hand of Mrs. Woodney? Yes. There might be something in it, and it would be an enormous help all round if they were working together. After all, Scarsdale's death does put them in control of a lot of money as trustees... Any more?"
"That letter to Langdon-Smythe, and, on the whole I think that that's the likeliest. Perhaps someone knew he was writing it, and stopped him just too late... Unfortunately, we can't find Langdon-Smythe at the moment. He's on a walking tour in Scotland, and the only address the Hotel Royal can give is the Edinburgh post office. And no one knows anything about him, except that he's fairly well off and came from abroad a few weeks ago."
"There remains the lady—oh no, I'd not forgotten about her. A charming girl—though at times the temptation to smack her must be strong. I'm inclined to think that Miss Sheila Mansfield is simply a complication—like a puncture occurring at the same moment as you hit a telegraph pole. I admit that her possession of the money is mysterious, and her putting it back more so. But I'm inclined to believe Scarsdale did give it to her for some undisclosed reason she's not likely to confess to, and that her coming that evening was accident... She and Shelton didn't know each other before that, of course—"
"You seem to know a lot," Wilkins grumbled. "Have you interviewed her?"
"Not exactly... I left the interviewing in more capable hands—so far as she's concerned. And that's why I'm inclined to rule out both Shelton and the girl. I think that's all. They're a pair of idiots, but we can't help that—"
"You mean they're in love with each other?"
"For a married man of some years' standing, isn't that a bit cynical? Yes, that's one reason, and, consequently, we can rely on their behaving stupidly on most occasions—"
He broke off as a knock sounded on the door and looked at Wilkins.
"That'll be Arrowby—the surgeon," the Superintendent explained. "Come in! Hullo, Doctor—Sit down, won't you?"
The police surgeon looked a little haggard as he seated himself and accepted a cigarette. He puffed at it once or twice, threw away the match, and looked from one to the other.
"Well?" he asked, "what is it? I'd be glad if you'd get it over... I've just come from the corpse, and I don't mind saying I've had enough. I believe Shipman's going to dissect the entire arterial system before we're through, and if there's one spot he didn't examine with a magnifying glass I missed it."
"Anything new?"
"Nothing—so far. Shipman's taken a few more specimens for analysis, though why he chose them I don't know... What did you want?"
Cheddington answered, glancing at a paper which he had taken from his pocket book.
"We wanted to know if at any rate you couldn't rule out some things," he said. "Now, I made a list of possibilities which, speaking as a layman, might produce the condition you find in Scarsdale's corpse. I'll go through with it, even if we do cover old ground. First, disease?"
"No such disease known. And, in the time, no imaginable disease could destroy the blood and get rid of the substances composing it without leaving traces."
"Poison."
"Same objections. We don't know a drug, there are no traces, and it's hard to see how it could work."
"A wound which has somehow escaped your notice—say inside the mouth or something like that?"
Arrowby threw away his cigarette impatiently. "That's what it must be!" he admitted. "Only, we've not found the wound. And, as that's the only explanation, I've examined every possible place for one thoroughly... Besides, there are certain objections. For one thing, I doubt if a wound small enough to escape notice could let out enough blood, unless it was sucked out somehow—"
"That's one possibility. We were thinking of a sucking animal—say a vampire bat?"
"Vampire bat?" Arrowby looked startled; then he grinned. "You're getting imaginative... If you want to know about their habits, you'd better ask the Zoo!"
"Good idea," Cheddington agreed, and actually made a note on the paper in his hand. "But if you don't like bats, say leeches... How would they do?"
"You'd need a lot. And we couldn't have missed the wounds. You see, there's not a scratch on Scarsdale, except two or three gnat-bites he's rubbed the tops off a day or two ago... Oh, I suppose you'll think they're possible. Well, they're not. I looked at them carefully and there was a well-formed scab over them, two or three days old. That couldn't happen after death."
"Suppose some kind of a needle had been pushed into the body. How visible would the wound be?"
"Not very," Arrowby answered with a trace of hesitation. "Though I think we'd have found it. There is a case on record of a man who died through a needle running into his heart, and it wasn't found until they dissected the heart. It had worked right in under the skin... But, you see, we were looking for something like that, and they weren't. That makes a difference. And what happened to the blood?" He rose as if to go. "That all?"
Wilkins handed him a paper which Cheddington recognised as a prescription form.
"Could that do anything to the blood?" he asked. "I mean, anything of the kind we want?"
"I tell you that no drug could!" Arrowby snapped, glancing at the form. "Hullo! Heselt?" he said in a different voice.
"What is it: who's Heselt?"
"London blood specialist. A good man... No, I don't know this mixture, but I'd stake my life it couldn't do anything. Better ask him. Good morning."
The Chief Constable stared after him for a moment before he turned to Wilkins.
"And that's that," he murmured, "and leaves us precious little wiser. In fact, everything is still deplorably vague... Oh, there's one thing more. That bullet—any explanation of that?"
The Superintendent opened a drawer and removed the tissue-paper package before he answered. He unfolded it and eyed its contents gloomily.
"No one seems to have heard of any bullet to which Scarsdale was specially attached," he answered at last. "I mean, none of the servants. Turton and Faringdon might know. I didn't like to ask them—in case they knew too much."
"You asked Mrs. Woodney?" Cheddington smiled.
"I did, as a matter of fact. I wasn't sure afterwards if I hadn't made a mistake there. She told me plenty, but nothing to the point. Anyway, I'm not sure that that old souvenir business is plausible. Look at it carefully. It's battered a good deal—if it was fired at anyone it must have hit a bone or something pretty hard. Those marks of the rifling show clearly enough—if we'd any idea what gun fired it, it wouldn't be hard to prove. But there are those other scratches. They're quite new. If it was just a keepsake, how were they made?"
"And why was it in that drawer?" Cheddington asked in turn. "Scarsdale seems to have been a comparatively tidy man. He wouldn't put it into a drawer devoted to stationery in the ordinary way. But he might have pushed it and the letter out of sight so that he could deal with his nephew. And the question then arises, were the bullet and the letter connected?"
Wilkins shrugged his shoulders. "It's a rifle bullet—a light sporting rifle; well, really it's about a middle size. Not a rook rifle, but not an elephant gun. It would do nicely for—"
"Deer, I should say."
"Or a man!" Wilkins said unexpectedly. His imagination seemed to be benefiting under Cheddington's influence. "And if this bullet had hit a man, and if Scarsdale got the bullet and the murderer knew—"
Cheddington laughed as he rose to his feet. "You're getting a second edition of the Arabian nights. First of all the Inca treasure, now this, and next—Couldn't you dig up a treasure for Turton? The Queen of Sheba's or something... Anything more?"
"Nothing, unless you'd like to come on a wild goose chase with me." Wilkins opened another drawer and produced a photograph and a long list of names, the bulk of which were crossed out. "It's the anonymous letter," he explained. "You see, there are the prints. Two fingers and a thumb, left hand; one finger right hand. We'll know him when we find him, and we're narrowing it down. In fact, we've narrowed it down so much already that it looks like vanishing altogether! But we've still three left, and one of the likeliest."
"'R. Crouch, J. Gunby, K. C. Tillett.' What is this, exactly? The short list, or what?"
"Those are the ones whose fingerprints we've not been able to get up to date. We know that it's not the others, because we've managed to get their prints without their knowing." Wilkins grinned. "Off pint pots, mostly! In fact, that's the way I expect to get these."
"I'll help!" Cheddington volunteered promptly. "By the way, which is the favourite?"
"Gunby. For one thing, he lives nearest the park, and the gamekeepers have their eye on him. Unfortunately, he's got his eye on the gamekeepers. He's never actually been caught. A casual labourer, works on different farms ditching and so on. Used to be a navvy."
"Then, quite probably he is a poacher, all right. Some of those navvies are experts at it... Only your conclusion that he'd work near home is unsound. If he'd any sense, he'd go as far away as possible." He glanced at the clock. "Well, the pubs are open, all right. Shall we set off—in chase of Gunby?"
"No," Wilkins answered seriously. "You see, Gunby doesn't look into his own particular pub until after seven. I thought we'd tackle the other two first. If you're ready—"
"More than ready. I'm thirsty. I'll drive in my car. Where's the first? The Plough, Wilhampton? Right."
An hour later the Chief Constable had considerably less reason to be thirsty; but there was little to show for it. Wilkins methodically crossed Tillett's name off his list as the Chief Constable started the car.
"Leaving Gunby," he said. "But he's the most likely?"
Cheddington sighed. "You couldn't rake up a few more suspects?" he suggested. "Suppose Gunby's a dud, there must be a few more people—and pubs. I'd no idea detective work was so interesting... By the way, here's a new problem for you. Constable A, on traffic duty, observes a car driving erratically and to the danger of the public. On stopping it, he discovers that the driver smells of beer, but also that he is the Chief Constable of the County, with the Superintendent as his only passenger. What does A do? Perhaps it's just as well there aren't any more or we should be had up for—"
Wilkins ignored the stream of conversation, knowing Cheddington too well to attribute it to such mild beer as he had consumed. He was really hopeful about Gunby, and equally about the chances of the anonymous letter-writer being able to provide some evidence regarding Scarsdale's death. Among his other investigations at the Hall, he had taken the trouble to verify the fact that, from a corner of the high wall surrounding the kitchen garden, it was actually possible to look into the window of the dead man's room. What Gunby or anyone else should be doing on the wall at midnight was not his immediate concern; he thought of it chiefly as a useful weapon by which the truth might be extracted if the witness proved obstinate.
Their route was taking them in a wide circle round the park. Wilkins watched the trees light up in the headlights a little absently. He was finding the business of investigating a murder far less entertaining and more exacting than his Chief Constable seemed to do. Most of that afternoon when he had not been writing reports he had been reading them or telephoning. He glanced at the clock. They had left the office late, and it was already nearly eight. He himself had every intention of calling it a day as soon as they had successfully dealt with Gunby—if circumstances permitted it. For he attached enough importance to what Gunby might have to say to think that it might mean the prolongation of the day's work to a very much later hour. He sighed audibly, and Cheddington, who had kept quite silent for several minutes, smiled in the darkness.
"Supposing that Gunby is the man, what next?" he asked. "Do we arrest him on the spot, put him through the third degree, or politely ask him for an explanation? Or a combination of all three? We'd better make up our minds—Hullo!"
He braked suddenly. Wilkins, as he was flung forward, had a momentary impression of a running figure just in front before it vanished into the hedge. He wiped his brow as Cheddington accelerated. It had been too close a thing for his taste, but Cheddington was unmoved.
"See that?" he asked.
"I saw we nearly hit him," Wilkins admitted. "If he'd not jumped pretty quickly—"
"His own fault. He dashed right across the road... But you saw who it was?"
"Too busy trying not to go through the windscreen," the Superintendent admitted. "You knew him?"
"We just missed creating the second vacancy for a baronetcy in three days!" Cheddington answered, and for a moment Wilkins did not understand. "Cut off in the flower of his youth—"
"Good Lord! Shelton?"
"Shelton himself. Bolting like a rabbit about the lanes when he ought to be digesting his dinner. Now, I wonder—"
Then he fell silent, and Wilkins was left to wonder for himself. From the direction in which Shelton seemed to have come he must have taken a short cut across the park; but where was he going? Had he found the girl? Was he going to meet her? He was still asking himself unprofitable questions when the car drew up at the inn.
"If the reporters knew," Cheddington murmured, "this little trip would really be a procession. They'll be as thick as flies to-morrow. I've been expecting them to-day, but there were only the two locals. That's one reason why I came. They can't find you and me, and no one else can give information. By the way, I suppose we shan't be recognised?"
"Never been here myself," Wilkins replied as he opened the door. "They might know you—"
Cheddington laughed, and they entered the empty bar with a proper spirit of careless merriment. Except for a man wiping glasses, who was evidently the landlord, it was empty. Cheddington gave the order for two half pints, and set the example of drinking his own as if it were the only object of their visit. In a minute or two he was talking to the landlord as if he had no other object in life than the wellbeing of the growing crops and the winner of the local steeplechase. Wilkins, though he recognised the desirability of preparing the ground, was getting impatient before they came to the point.
"By the way, I'm badly troubled by rabbits on my bit of ground," Cheddington said at last. "Isn't there a man called Gunby round here somewhere? Someone said he'd clear them out for me."
"Joe Gunby?" The landlord looked at him doubtfully. "Why, I'd say he'd clear out the rabbits, all right—but I wouldn't be sure he'd not clear out a few other things as well."
"Nothing else to clear—I've no pheasants!" Cheddington grinned, and the landlord responded to it. "Comes here, does he? I rather thought I might find him to fix up."
"You've missed him. He was here not half an hour ago, sitting right there." One fat thumb was jerked towards the rough wooden table where a mug remained as a memorial to the absent user of it. "Yes, he'd have been here in the ordinary way, too. But, just as it happens, he had to meet a gentleman to-night—"
"A gentleman with feathers?" Cheddington suggested and winked. "I expect he has a lot of night work!"
"I'm not saying anything about that, sir!" The landlord smiled. "But no, it wasn't anything like that to-night. Got to meet a man, he said, and hoped to do himself a bit of good. Looked as if he'd been doing it already. I was just as glad he left early."
"Tight?" Wilkins asked.
"Getting on, sir. And he took a bottle away—whisky! I asked him if he'd come into a fortune. But he's pretty close about his own affairs—and he's maybe got his reasons."
"That's not my affair... Has he gone long? We might catch him." Cheddington had become thoughtful, and Wilkins stepped in.
"Best part of an hour, sir. I know because, being a Thursday and pay-day to-morrow, trade's pretty slack. They don't come in till later."
"Then that's his mug, is it? Anyone touched it?"
Wilkins had allowed his impatience to overrun his discretion. The question surprised the landlord. He looked from one to another; then recognition dawned suddenly in his eyes.
"Why, sir, you're—"
"Yes," Cheddington assented quickly, "and this is Superintendent Wilkins... Now, look here. This is important—or you wouldn't find me bothering about it. We want you to keep a still tongue—and if you've a back room, we'll show you a little police work. That's Gunby's mug?"
"Yes, sir." The landlord's voice was subdued, but he was evidently agog with curiosity. "It'll be the Hall murder, sir?"
"It might be, anyway. We don't want it known we've been."
"This way, sir." He opened the flap of the bar and they passed through, Wilkins carrying the glass mug as though it might burn him. "You'll be private in here—"
"Now, we'd just like your fingerprints." Wilkins sat down at the table and produced a sheet of paper and an inked pad. "You see, that's what we came here for—Gunby's prints, I mean. They should be on this pot; but yours will be, too. So we'll have to sort them out... Like this."
A little nervously the landlord obeyed the directions, as though fearful that the process might be a trap. Wilkins took the resultant prints and laid beside them the photograph which the anonymous letter had yielded; then started to powder the mug carefully. The landlord watched with absolute absorption, but Cheddington's voice broke in on his thoughts.
"Gunby was well off to-night, was he?"
"He's always pretty flush, sir. Makes quite a bit one way or another. But to-night—yes, I don't mind saying I wondered who he'd been robbing. When it came to five-pound notes—"
"He changed one?" Cheddington asked eagerly.
"No, sir. But he'd got two or three. And said there was more where that came from. You don't think, sir, that he—"
"Got him—look here!" Wilkins had jumped to his feet in excitement. He was pointing to two greyish irregular patches near the handle of the mug. "That's the thumb and first finger—"
"Right. The rest will wait." Cheddington seemed to be in a sudden hurry. He was frowning anxiously. "If you'd lock that mug up, landlord—and not a word, mind! Come on, Wilkins. We'll have to hustle."
The Superintendent was probably more surprised than the landlord at their sudden exit; but he waited until the door had closed behind them before his curiosity found expression.
"Why—"
"You know the way to Gunby's cottage? Good. We'll go right now. Better leave the car, if it's not far."
"Not five minutes," Wilkins replied. "We're in the devil of a hurry all at once, aren't we? A few minutes ago—"
"There's reason. Gunby wrote that letter; Gunby saw something. To-day he's suddenly rich. He left about an hour ago to meet a gentleman and expects more money. For what? It's self-evident. And that's why we're hurrying."
"You mean—the gentleman's the murderer? You're hoping to get him?"
Cheddington smiled grimly in the darkness. "Perhaps," he said. "Or that he won't get Gunby!"
NEITHER man spoke as they hurried down the road in the direction from which they had just come. Wilkins, at least, found that he needed his breath for other purposes. Although Cheddington was a few years his senior, he was a full yard in the lead when Wilkins bent forward and touched his arm.
"Up here," he whispered. "There's a gate."
But the gate was already open. It led into a rutted lane, deeply sunken between two high banks, the shadows of which made the going difficult. After a minute or two Cheddington had a glimpse of the black outline of trees against the sky. The cottage, he realised, must be on the very edge of the park, conveniently situated, no doubt, for Gunby's poaching activities. Cheddington had little time to think about them, or even what the poacher might have seen at the Hall. He was asking himself whether they would get there in time.
Gunby had tried to blackmail an ingenious and cold-blooded murderer. He had been rash enough to arrange a solitary meeting with him in a lonely spot. He had only himself to blame for the consequences. But who was he meeting? Running through the list in his mind he could find no satisfactory answer; but that did not decrease his sense of the man's danger. And, whether Gunby himself was worth saving or not, they needed his evidence.
"Careful! We're getting close!" Wilkins whispered.
The banks of the lane had given place to a tall hedge of unkempt hawthorns on one side, and on the other the pitch-black mass of a young fir plantation. The muddy ruts in the lane's surface had ceased, perhaps because they had passed some gateway to which they led, and the soft grass under foot made their progress noiseless. There was something frightening in the silence. Once a small animal squeaked in the hedge close beside them, and the rustle of its flight sounded startlingly clear. Cheddington felt the Superintendent's hand on his arm and stopped.
"We're in sight of it," Wilkins breathed. "There's no light... It's on the left—not twenty yards."
They stood for half a minute listening, but the night was absolutely still. Cheddington stared in the direction that Wilkins had indicated. The outline of the house, if the Superintendent was right, must be merged in the background of the wood. Then, in the spiked fringe of the pine trees, he made out something which was not a branch. It was the square silhouette of a chimney pot. But from the shadow below it where the house must have stood there was no glimmer of a lamp. Cheddington felt a quick rush of fear. He was starting forward when Wilkins' whisper stopped him.
"Wait! Someone's coming!" From up the lane ahead came the sound of approaching footsteps. There the road surface must have been more stony, for Cheddington heard a pebble rattle as if a careless foot had kicked it. Whoever it was who was coming appeared to be taking no special pains to conceal his arrival. And he was hurrying. Something in the quick footsteps suggested panic-stricken haste. Then all at once they stopped.
For an instant Cheddington thought that the stranger had somehow sensed their presence and taken alarm. Then the click of the gate latch ahead told him the truth. The unknown had stopped only for a second or two staring towards the dark house, perhaps screwing up his courage to enter. The gravel crunched as the feet started up the path. Then they heard a low cry of panic. Wilkins gripped Cheddington's arm, and an answering pressure told him that the Chief Constable had also noticed. It was a woman. A moment later a man's voice came to them clearly.
"Sheila—Miss Mansfield! It's all right! It's me—Peter Shelton!"
Wilkins started involuntarily. They heard the girl's gasp of surprise.
"You! But—but how—"
"The brute had a go at me, too," Shelton answered angrily. "I guessed he might try it and went to the farm. You'd gone out. I came here and waited."
"But—but I had to come alone!"
"I'm coming with you. We'll have it out. Better the police than a blackmailer—"
"It—it's dark. There's no one—"
"Shutters, perhaps. We'll go and see. You knock, and if he opens—"
In the darkness Cheddington smiled to himself. It was typical of the young baronet's guilelessness to arrive so stealthily, hide so carefully, and then hold a long dialogue in the front garden of the man he hoped to take by surprise. He sobered suddenly. Perhaps it did not matter how much noise Shelton made. Perhaps they were already too late.
Startlingly loud in the stillness came the three knocks of the girl's summons. Cheddington was reminded of the signal for a stage curtain to go up. But nothing happened. He pictured the girl waiting on the doorstep with her hand lifted, wondering whether to repeat the knocking or not. It seemed an age before she did so. The silence came again, and the waiting.
"Get nearer!"
Cheddington hardly breathed the words. Together they felt their way along the hedge side until the Chief Constable's fingers touched the woodwork of the gate. Evidently the girl was still waiting. At last they heard her speak.
"There—there's no one inside! I—I'm—afraid—"
"Quiet!" Shelton warned her. "He may be waiting somewhere—to see if you came alone... No, but he couldn't be. All this time—"
"Let—let's go!" There was a shudder in the girl's voice. "I can't stand it! I—I'm frightened of this place... There's something—something—" She broke off. Where—where are you?"
"Here," Shelton reassured her. "I'll take you to the farm. Then I'll come back. This way—"
There was the rattling of the gravel again. Wilkins bent towards his superior to whisper.
"What now?"
"Can't wait. We'll show ourselves. Think we're too late—"
Cheddington rose to his feet as he spoke. Though he was right in the gateway Shelton and the girl were almost upon him before they saw. They heard the girl's quick intake of breath. Shelton jumped forward, gripping Cheddington's arm.
"Who's that? Gunby?"
"Cheddington," the Chief Constable announced briefly. "And Wilkins... You'd better come back with us. I'm going to break in."
"But why—"
"You'll see!" The thought of what they might find made Cheddington alter his decision. "No—you'd better stay here with Miss Mansfield. Don't bolt!"
In the excitement of the moment neither of them noticed that he had used the girl's name.
"I—I'd rather come!" Sheila Mansfield protested. "Even if—if— I'd rather know than wait—"
"Right," Cheddington assented impatiently. "We may need you, Shelton. Come on."
"Colonel Cheddington," Shelton began stiffly, "I can—"
"Tell me later. Good God, man, he may be dead or dying—"
Wilkins was at his heels as he opened the gate and hurried up the path. Bewildered and a little annoyed, Shelton held the girl's arm and followed obediently. Cheddington's torch flashed on the door; then he tried the handle.
"Locked!" he said briefly. "Might mean anything... We'll try somewhere else—"
Before the others understood what he was doing, he had crossed to the window of what was presumably the living room. Like the door, it was securely fastened. He tried to peer inside, but the light reflected from the dirty panes made it impossible to see anything. With a quick movement he reversed the torch, bringing the back of it smashing against the glass. They heard the pieces tinkle on the stones. There was a moment's silence. Carefully inserting his hand into the hole, Cheddington found the catch and pressed it back. He flung up the sash.
"Come, Wilkins! You two wait a minute."
Without giving Shelton a chance to answer he forced himself through the narrow opening. For Wilkins's larger figure it was a tight squeeze. When he gained his feet, dishevelled and scratched, Cheddington was already flashing the torch about the room.
"Nothing..." he commented doubtfully. "Filthy hole, isn't it... Ah!"
The beam of the torch had focussed upon the key which lay on the stone floor just inside the doorway. His face grew stern.
"Look! Pushed under the door—"
"I don't see—" Wilkins began.
"He wouldn't lock himself out... We'll have to search. Oh, you'd better let them in—"
On the point of picking up the door key, Wilkins stopped, felt in his pocket and produced a handkerchief with which he handled the end of the key gingerly, finally using a pencil to turn it. Cheddington nodded approval.
"Good man... Hullo! Come in."
White-faced and scared, Sheila stepped forward, glancing to right and left round the dirty room. Shelton was just behind her. He looked at the Chief Constable a little aggressively.
"Well?" he asked. "What—"
"Nothing—yet. You stay here. Light the lamp. We'll search—"
Shelton fumbled for the matches obediently as Cheddington started across the room towards the inner door which presumably led to the scullery. As he found and struck one, the girl stepped back to let him reach the table. A cry burst from her lips.
"Oh!"
Cheddington wheeled with his hand on the door-latch. The match dropped from Shelton's fingers.
"What was it?"
"Something—something on the floor. I trod on it—"
Together Wilkins' and the Chief Constable's torches focussed on the uneven flags beside the table. For a moment they saw nothing. Then Shelton stooped with a cry.
"Here!... What the devil—"
He held up something in his hand. The three stared for a perceptible time. Wilkins recognised it first. His voice came shakily.
"Heavens—heavens above! A bat!"
Cheddington snatched the dead body from Shelton's hands. His torch shone right upon it.
"There's blood—" he whispered. "Oh. Killed by a stick—"
Wilkins bent down abruptly. As he straightened himself he held up a heavy blackthorn cudgel. He examined it for a moment; then pointed. A small dark smear gleamed wet near the point.
"It—it's Gunby's," Shelton said hesitantly, "I saw him carrying it—"
"Light the lamp," Cheddington ordered again. He laid the bundle of fur and membrane on the table. "It's nasty... Wilkins!"
As the lamp-wick caught, Sheila Mansfield clutched Shelton's arm. In the back room they could see the torches flashing on the damp-stained walls and hear the two men moving about. Cheddington's voice came to them, harsh with strong emotion.
"Ah!... Wilkins!"
"What—what is it? What does it mean? The bat—What—"
Shelton's arm stole round her protectingly. She was on the verge of hysteria. He could feel her trembling.
"We'll soon see," he said with an assurance which he did not feel. "It's nothing to be frightened of—"
The firm pressure of his arm comforted her. She glanced at the dead bat, shuddered and looked away again. Her eyes sought his face.
"But—but Gunby."
"I think—" Shelton began and stopped. "They must have found him—"
"But why—"
Wilkins's appearance in the doorway interrupted her question. He beckoned to Shelton.
"Come and look," he invited. "He's here... You'd better wait, Miss Mansfield. You see—"
"I—I—I—" She shuddered, glanced at the table and clutched Shelton's arm more tightly. "Don't leave me! I'd face anything—Better stay together," Shelton cut in before the Superintendent could speak. "She needn't look..."
Wilkins did not argue. He turned and led the way. The doorway gave access, not to the scullery which one might have expected, but to a lumber-filled room where Gunby had evidently stored such miscellaneous possessions and furniture as were not needed. Through another door on the left they saw a light. Cheddington was bending over something on the floor.
"Mind!" Wilkins warned them simply.
The beam of his torch flashed at their feet. In the middle of the doorway another bat lay dying. Shelton saw its wing move feebly. With a shudder the girl hung back as the Superintendent stepped over it. Shelton's voice came encouragingly.
"It's all right. Don't be frightened—"
She screwed up her courage to follow him, stepping with a shiver over the spot where she knew the bat to lie without looking down.
"Shelton! Here!"
The urgency in Cheddington's voice made him loosen his arm gently from her grip.
"You'll be all right," he said. "Superintendent—"
"Right," Wilkins assented. "Stop here, Miss Mansfield—or maybe you'd rather go back—"
She shook her head. Shelton had joined Cheddington on the floor beside the body. He was feeling the wrist. She did not want to look, but she could not help it. There was no doubt that the man on the floor was Gunby. She recognised the sharp, thin features and wondered that they should look so calm. Then everything seemed to swim round her. She would have fallen, but Wilkins caught her.
"Steady, Miss—"
Distantly Cheddington's voice came to her.
"Dead, isn't he?"
"Just dead," Shelton answered quietly. "Perhaps half an hour to an hour. Not more—"
"How?"
Shelton rose to his feet and looked down at the dead man. There was not a sign of violence, no mark of a wound. He shrugged his shoulders.
"Don't know... He'd been drinking—I'm inclined to think he may have been drugged as well. The eyes—"
"You think that—well, is it the same?"
The young man stood frowning for half a minute. "I'd say it was," he said slowly. "There's something about the look of him—" He broke off, took the torch from Cheddington's hand and bent again to look. "Ah!" he exclaimed. "See there!"
He was pointing to a small red spot on the neck. Cheddington leant over to look.
"That—that wouldn't kill him?" he asked. "Surely—"
"It's right over the artery. If it goes in deep enough—"
"You think—the bats?"
"That's your affair... Anyway, there's a wound, this time."
Cheddington stood up. "Wilkins," he said, "take Miss Mansfield into the other room. I'll send Sir Peter in in a moment—" He waited until they were entering the living room before he spoke again. "Suppose it is the same—" he said again. "Those bats—"
"Man, two bats couldn't produce the result that we found at the post mortem—" Shelton broke off. "The blood must have gone somewhere. It would need a flock of bats."
"You were coming to see him?"
Shelton flushed. "Yes. I suppose you ought to have been told but—he came up to me in the park this morning, and said that he'd information about my uncle's death. Offered to sell it to me if I came at nine o'clock to-night—"
"And it is now"—Cheddington glanced at his wrist watch—"a quarter to nine—!"
"Oh, I know. If I'd come to you he'd have been living now. I'm not excusing myself. But there were reasons—"
"He blackmailed you?"
"And—and Miss Mansfield. It occurred to me afterwards that he must have seen us together. I went to find her, heard she'd gone out and hurried here, thinking—" He broke off. The enigma of Cheddington's attitude had suddenly dawned upon him. "But you—how could you know—"
"Oh, I was listening in to your little conference this morning. Didn't follow—went round the park in the car and met you... Lucky for you I did, perhaps."
"Then—then you don't think that I—"
"I don't think you killed Gunby," Cheddington assured him. "On the whole, your conduct to-night simply shouts your innocence... But I'll want to talk to you. After all—" His hand jerked towards the man on the floor. "He needn't have died. You'll perhaps see reason... Oh, and I don't think that Miss Mansfield killed him either!"
"Miss Mansfield!" Shelton repeated, and looked towards the door. "She's—"
"Better go to her, if you're sure he's dead. Send Wilkins." Cheddington was looking round the room. A candle stuck in a bottle neck above the sink promised a more permanent form of illumination than the torch. He lit it while Shelton still hesitated. "Go on, Wilkins can be useful!"
Before the insult could get home to Shelton, the Chief Constable had changed his mind.
"No, I'll come and see myself... Death an hour ago, or less, you say? How long were you waiting here before Miss Mansfield came?"
The last question was fired over his shoulder as he moved back into the living-room. In spite of the assurance Cheddington had given to him Shelton hesitated; then decided to tell the whole truth.
"Quite a quarter of an hour, I should think. Perhaps more—"
"You saw no one?"
"No."
"But he could only just have got away. If only you'd seen—Ah! Found anything, Wilkins?"
The Superintendent, despairing, perhaps, of offering Sheila Mansfield such comfort as Shelton seemed able to give, or perhaps being a married man of strict integrity, had installed her in a chair and was already making himself useful. At the moment they entered he was seated at the table, engaged in carefully powdering one of the two glasses which stood there. Sheila Mansfield was watching him with fascinated interest. A little colour had come back to her cheeks, and she even managed to smile wanly as Shelton entered.
Wilkins worked for a moment before he answered. "Not much," he said. "No prints on the key. No prints on one glass—plenty on the other. Probably they're Gunby's. Can't see any tracks... Look!"
He indicated the whisky bottle with one finger. It was half-emptied.
"Didn't do so badly, did he, seeing that he'd had some before... The chairs were as they are now. Looks to me as if they sat here talking; then the other man carried him out there when he was drunk."
"Yes," Cheddington assented. "Carried, you say?"
"No marks of dragging that I can see. Must have been a pretty hefty chap. Gunby was no chicken."
Perhaps it was half unconsciously that his eyes strayed to Shelton's tall form; but behind the young man's back Cheddington shook his head. He himself was convinced of Shelton's innocence and, just at that moment he had no desire to have someone who might be useful put in a bad humour. It was partly with a view to warning him that he decided to ask for his help in the other room.
"If you've finished here—" he began.
"Good Lord! Finished?" Wilkins echoed. "Seems to me we'll have to pull the place to pieces before we're through. Well, I've done all that need be done for the moment... He probably hid those notes. I don't see them round anywhere... By the way that bat—"
The girl shivered; but Wilkins himself was so little disturbed by it that he had been working with his nose not two feet from it. Now he pointed to it.
"I don't get this bat stuff," he said with a slight frown. "That vampire business—I admit it looks funny. But that's just an ordinary bat. Never sucked blood in its life—"
"We'll see later," Cheddington interposed swiftly at the sight of the girl's face. "Come outside here, will you?"
"Right. But you'll find that it's as I say. A million of that sort of bat couldn't hurt you—unless you caught a few fleas—"
Cheddington interrupted the zoological lecture by shepherding him outside. In spite of her fears the girl smiled. Wilkins was no fool, but there were times when one thought that he had a beautifully simple nature. Shelton returned the smile and crossed the room towards her.
"Better?" he asked.
"Yes. It was horrible, wasn't it? And I trod on one..." She shivered. Shelton marvelled at the inconsistency which could be more disturbed by a dead bat than the body in the scullery. "He is—he's quite dead?"
"Very," Shelton said grimly. "I'm shedding no tears about that myself. It was a good thing I thought of going to look for you. It took me ages to find out where you were staying. You left your other lodgings?"
"Yes. My landlady—we quarrelled. She was suspicious of something... I'd known the people at the farm before. So I moved this afternoon."
"I heard so at last." Shelton was thinking that her familiarity with the district was another puzzle which would require explaining, but it was not the time for it. "You see, when I thought it over, it struck me that the odds were he'd try the same game on you—think you were easier, probably. So I decided to be present at the interview—"
"He died—as your uncle died?"
"Yes. Funny business, isn't it? And awkward. If he'd only been able to speak, and say what he saw on the night my uncle died—That would put everything straight—would have, I mean."
"Oh, if only he could—could come to life again just long enough—" She broke off, staring at Shelton with terrified eyes as he jumped from the chair where he had seated himself. "What? What is it?"
"Fool!" Shelton almost shouted. "Come to life again! Lord, it's possible! Cheddington! Cheddington!"
Leaving the girl where she sat he dashed from the room.
UPSTAIRS in the untidy bedroom the fight for Gunby's life was proceeding. Cheddington, banished unceremoniously from the scene of operations could hear the doctors moving about as he paced the floor of the living room impatiently. With the ordinary man's views about death, he had at first received Shelton's suggestion with incredulity, and the young man's energy rather than his arguments had finally convinced him in spite of scepticism. Wilkins was not even sceptical; he thought it was nonsense. Accordingly, he was sitting at the table scribbling notes as if nothing important had happened or was happening. He looked up as the Chief Constable came to a stop beside him.
"Wonder how much longer they're going to waste?" he asked. "Oughtn't we to get along to the Hall?"
"I don't know," Cheddington admitted. "If he does come round—"
"He won't. When a man's dead he's dead, and Gunby'd been dead over an hour. That young man's a bit touched in the head. You can't bring people back to life... Oh, I heard what he said to you, but it didn't mean a thing. When he started on 'transfusion' and 'intravenous saline' I gave up."
"But it might be done," Cheddington answered quickly. "If we weren't too late. After all, you can revive people when they're drowned. There's no essential difference. I mean, you can bring them back to life, because once the water is removed from the lungs the machinery of the body is really undamaged, if tackled quickly. You can start it up again—like shaking a clock... And if this has happened as we think, the only difference is the loss of blood. Replace that by transfusion, and if it's not too late—"
He broke off without finishing the sentence. As the minutes passed, he had to admit that the chances of Gunby's ever figuring either in the dock or in the witness box were getting more remote. Wilkins supplied the alternative condition.
"And if we were too late, or Shelton's as daft as I think him, there's three constables off duty for a day or so," he grumbled. "If we're going to provide blood donors on that scale, you'd better ask the Council for an increase of staff... Hope no one bothers me like this when I peg out."
"There'd be no incentive," Cheddington rejoined. "But if he can be made to talk—"
"That's about the hundredth 'if' you've used in the last half hour." Wilkins laid down his pencil in despair, and felt for his pipe. "This is a bad business, though. To have another murder before you've dealt with the first—and presumably by the same person—"
"It's not artistically brilliant," Cheddington admitted. "And everyone will say we ought to have called in Scotland Yard. But you only got the letter this morning—you've had half the police in the county looking for the writer—and I don't see that you could have found him much earlier—or known that he'd be ass enough to try blackmailing. Then the doctors didn't know how he died—"
"Shelton knew about the blackmailing this morning," Wilkins said grimly. "He may well be trying to pull Gunby back from the grave, because by not telling us he let him get there."
"I suppose so. But it wasn't unnatural. He'd got the idea we suspected him; and we did. He's by no means sure that he didn't commit the murder in his sleep—which is absurd. Well, when Gunby came after him, he'd got the choice of getting a bit of evidence that might clear him or having the man going to the police and telling a story about his meeting the girl which would have been pretty awkward."
Wilkins grunted. "You think he's told you the whole story even now?"
"All he'd time for. The girl's a different matter. There's something funny there—"
"She was Scarsdale's secretary, of course, wasn't she?" Wilkins announced rather than asked. Cheddington looked his surprise. "Oh, I suppose you thought I didn't know that... Well, it's obvious enough. When we got the idea there was a woman in this show, I naturally asked a few questions about women connected with the household in the past few years. Her name was on the list. From what I heard, Scarsdale got bitten by the writing bug and thought he'd like to see accounts of his travels priced threepence on remainder bookstalls. Being about as good at writing as—as—"
"As you are," Cheddington suggested.
"As the average writer of travel books," Wilkins said with dignity. "It's a funny thing, you know, that the people who've got anything interesting to write about can hardly ever write, and the people who haven't can't be stopped—"
"If this is a literary conversazione—"
"It just happens I'm fond of travel books. Anyway, Scarsdale had got someone else who could do the writing part, and he had to pick on a woman. He got her. I've seen the book. The spelling's all right."
"But not worth a thousand pounds," Cheddington said slowly. "No. And she won't say why he gave it to her or why she wanted it—"
"She's got a widowed mother dangerously ill who needs a specialist," the Superintendent said gravely. Cheddington looked up dubiously, suspecting a joke. "It's true. People do have widowed mothers in real life. And specialists. She's got both, as it happens."
"But how did you know? She didn't say—"
"I do a bit of work for my money... Obviously I asked the banks if other notes out of the missing hundred and fifty had been passed. They had—in London. That put me on to the specialist, nursing home and so on."
"Wilkins, I apologise... Why didn't you tell me?"
"Oh, you seemed to have some things up your sleeve yourself. I thought I'd pay you back a bit."
"Rank insubordination!" Cheddington exclaimed; but Wilkins grinned. It had always puzzled him how his superior managed to attain his military rank without being cashiered, and discipline and dignity were points which were rarely raised in their association. Cheddington thought for a moment. "I suppose your clairvoyance hasn't decided why he gave it to her?"
"No, unless it was just his kind heart... That's not a joke either. He'd got one, you know. The only thing is that she doesn't say that. I don't see any way of finding that out. It seems to have been entirely between the two of them, and they kept it pretty dark."
"I'm not sure that it need worry us much—"
"It might Shelton. If that's his normal bedside manner, and how he deals with overstrung females it's a good thing for him that he's going to be a baronet and not a doctor. Holding hands and so on is all very well—"
"Curse Shelton!" Cheddington looked up irritably as something thumped on the floor-boards overhead. "What the devil are they doing now? I wish they'd settle one way or the other."
"No use getting worried." The Superintendent's pipe was going nicely, and he showed none of the other's impatience. "The point is, what are you doing at the Hall? They shouldn't know there that it's happened... We'll have to make them give some account of themselves. Particularly—?"
"Turton, Faringdon, Arnley—" Cheddington sighed. "You know, I wish we could find something to pin one of them down a bit. One thing, they surely can't all have alibis."
"And they can't all be in bed this time. Which is your fancy?"
Cheddington considered. "Now that Shelton's out of it—"
"Is he?" Wilkins interpolated.
"Yes. I think so. I'm not going only by his general conduct, and what I overheard. But if the time he and Arrowby give for death having occurred is right, he must have been knocking at the door of the farm where the girl was staying. Arrowby's positive it couldn't have happened so short a time as quarter of an hour before we found him. And, you see, I've an idea that this murder would take time. Lets say half an hour at the least. Well, we can check up at the Hall on the time Shelton left. Probably he really will have an alibi on this."
"But the girl was out when he got there," Wilkins suggested. "And she didn't get here until after he did."
"Yes," Cheddington frowned. "Says she lost her way... You know, I can't believe in her as a possibility, but—" He broke off momentarily and went on again in a different voice. "You see, for a woman, this vampire business—well, it's too horrible."
"Don't know. Women are the commonest poisoners. And it may have been poison—injected somehow—"
"But the doctors say it wasn't. This time, Arrowby seemed certain of it. You see, there's the wound—"
Wilkins grunted. His recollection of the tiny mark on the dead man's neck was scarcely calculated to make him believe that by means of such a wound a man could bleed to death. His eyes rested for a moment on the dead bat; there was a queer expression on his face as he looked up again at Cheddington.
"But how?" he asked. "How else could it happen? Oh, I can gather up to a point. Gunby had arranged to meet the man he was blackmailing. The man comes, and they talk things over with some whisky to help them. Gunby had been drinking already, and probably the murderer drugged him besides... Why not poison him straight off? What did he do?"
Cheddington hesitated. "The bats—" he began.
"Well, there again, if Gunby was unconscious, who killed them. And there'd be some blood... You think the murderer loosed the bats here and left them to it? Then who killed them?"
"I don't know," Cheddington admitted. "And I don't know if they could do it anyway... But the doctors say that the blood has been sucked out somehow... Beastly, isn't it?"
Wilkins shrugged his shoulders. His incredulity in vampire bats was unshaken, and the fact that he could provide no alternative explanation made no difference to him.
"As for your other point—I mean, why he wasn't poisoned—" Cheddington began thoughtfully after a pause, "I believe it's a fact that murderers tend to continue in a method which has proved successful once. In Scarsdale's case, the drugging was done already. But the murderer must have known about it. And the drugging seems to be an essential part of the method, because the murderer had to do it himself this time. If he'd poisoned Gunby, there would have been some positive trace when the body was found. As it is, the way he died is still something of a mystery. That might be an important point if the case ever comes into court."
"And in the meantime we're hanging about here when we might be doing something useful," Wilkins objected. "Those doctors are daft. It's no good—"
He broke off as the door of the little room upstairs opened and feet sounded on the staircase. Shelton was coming slowly down, and the look on his face made Cheddington's question almost unnecessary.
"He's dead?"
"Yes. No good," Shelton answered dispiritedly. "Arrowby agrees it's no good going on... If only I'd not been such an ass and had thought of it earlier—"
"Then there was a chance?"
"Yes, I think so. You see—"
The brisker descent of Arrowby interrupted his explanation. The police surgeon seemed in good spirits rather than otherwise, and turned to Shelton sympathetically.
"Jolly good effort, Shelton," he congratulated. "By Jove, I thought once that we'd pulled it off. The heart actually started a bit—or I think so—"
"That's what makes it so damnable," Shelton frowned. "We were so close... Oh, I don't care about him. He deserved all he got, if only for—"
"Blackmailing Miss Mansfield," Cheddington suggested gently. "Well, perhaps... But it would have been handy if he could have come round long enough to tell us what he saw—and who killed him! By the way, Arrowby, about the cause of death—"
"Bearing in mind the wound in his throat there's not the slightest doubt this time. He bled to death—but the blood was somehow sucked out and disposed of... Of course, you'll have those bats examined?"
"Wilkins is pretty sure they're ordinary bats. Yes, of course we shall. The trouble is we know so little about it—what vampire bats do, what they look like and so on. I'll go into that at once. And now—"
"The Hall?" Wilkins rose eagerly. "There's just a chance that they won't know there yet. There are a few questions we ought to ask some of them."
"Miss Mansfield?" Shelton demanded all at once. He had suddenly realised that the girl was missing. What—where is she?"
"Sent her home in one of the cars," Cheddington reassured him. "Unless I wanted a case of hysteria on my hands, there was nothing else for it... I'll have to see her later."
"She'd nothing to do with it!" Shelton broke out hotly. "The idea's preposterous. You can't think—"
Cheddington sighed. He had treated Shelton with the greatest tenderness throughout, but there were times when he felt his patience severely tried.
"Miss Mansfield has plenty to explain," he said a little sharply. "Making all allowances for chivalry and so on, so far I've had no explanation regarding the thousand pounds which she tried to put back the night you found her. And you haven't, I believe."
Shelton flushed at this home thrust, but the Chief Constable went on implacably.
"Giving every consideration to the feelings of the young lady—and your own, Sir Peter—a murder has been committed. Now, two murders. In the first, Miss Mansfield was certainly in the neighbourhood and has declined to explain behaviour which was, to say the least, unusual. To-night, Miss Mansfield was here again—and has so far failed to account for her time during the period in which the murder must have been committed. If you have any influence with her, I should certainly suggest to her the advisability of a more helpful attitude."
Shelton was silent for a moment. Cheddington had half expected an outburst, but the young man swallowed the rebuke.
"Perhaps, if you don't need me, I could see her now?" he asked. "She needs someone. She was nearly hysterical."
"Yes. A little medical attention might be desirable," Cheddington assented drily. "You'd like to go? Or I expect Arrowby will be free now?"
Arrowby grinned. "She's not my patient," he refused hastily. "Now I think you'd better go, Shelton... And I'd certainly tell her to speak out, I think, if I were you. After all this is no kind of business to mess about with."
Shelton's face wore a worried look as he moved towards the door, and, from what he had overheard of the interview between them, Cheddington could not help sympathising. Sheila Mansfield, he judged, would be a difficult customer for the young man to handle, and it was for that very reason that he had allowed Shelton to go to her at a time when she might be less controlled than usual; for if she still refused to explain to the police, she might to Shelton, and he had some faith in his ability to extract it. He caught Wilkins's eye and woke to the immediate present a little guiltily.
"Yes, we'll go at once," he said quickly. "To the Hall, I mean... You've got your car, Arrowby, of course? Yes. You'll let me have a report as soon as possible—and I suppose Shipman will have another go at this too?"
"There'll be complications this time!" Arrowby said cheerfully. "You see, he hadn't any blood before, but he has now... I don't see how the devil an analysis is going to give decent results. By the way, I disagree with Shelton. I don't think he was drugged. Only tight. I'd like to analyse that whisky—and the glasses, or what's left in them."
"Anything you like," Cheddington assented, conscious of Wilkins's impatient figure by the door. "Tell the sergeant. I'm leaving him in charge here... Good night."
Wilkins maintained an accusing silence as the car sped along the lanes, and at last Cheddington himself had to start the conversation.
"If young Shelton was guilty," he said reflectively, "he's had a grand chance to cover up the traces of the crime... By the way, Arnley wasn't there, was he? They tried to get him."
"No," the Superintendent answered reluctantly. "He'd been out all evening... And he's another person who might do a little explaining... After all, he above all people must have known Scarsdale was taking the stuff; he could even have told him to take a heavy dose. He was ready enough to sign a certificate—until Shelton got at him. He knows the Hall well enough—he could have got in somehow, even if he didn't climb in through that darned window."
"Yes," Cheddington assented. "But he's no motive... And least of all did he have a motive for going in again last night—so far as we know. And, by the way, who do you think had one?"
"I've been thinking about that... Well, it was natural enough for anyone with enough nerve to choose Scarsdale's room. It's the easiest to climb into and, since the inner door had been forced, it couldn't be fastened... What bothers me is this. Was it someone inside the Hall who left by way of the library (and, since we were there all the rest of the night after we saw Shelton had to climb in that way), or did someone from outside the Hall climb in that way and leave by way of the library before we came? And, on the whole, I'm inclined to think it was the second. Because Shelton heard something or saw someone—he says—and came down. It looks as though whoever it was had gone then."
"And, why come in?" Cheddington asked. "We've looked through the house more or less. But we can't possibly say that there wasn't some paper or something stowed away that we didn't know about which had to be taken away. Only, that makes it an outside job. And Arnley's the only outsider—up to date—unless it was the girl. But if it was the girl, why did she come back again and, apparently, bring back the money?"
"Apparently," Wilkins echoed significantly. "That's what she told Shelton, isn't it? But he didn't believe it at first. And she's told us practically nothing."
"Wasn't in a condition to." Cheddington slowed down at the cross-roads where the by-road led towards the Hall gates, and turned the corner before continuing. "But I think she will—when it comes to the point. We'll have to scare her a bit."
"And the others?"
"We'll see where they say they've been first... Hullo! What's that? Arnley?"
The headlights of an approaching car had come to a stop just outside the garage near the entrance to the garden of Dr. Arnley's house. Cheddington accelerated a little, and drew to a halt suddenly beside it, in time to see the driver just as he was in the act of descending.
"Hullo, that you, Arnley?" he asked.
"Colonel Cheddington?" There seemed to be a trace of embarrassment in Dr. Arnley's tone as he answered: "You wanted me?"
"We looked for you about an hour ago—no, rather more. Heard you'd gone out and hadn't said where you were going. Where have you been? A case somewhere?"
"Why did you want me?" Arnley evaded the question. "Something important?"
"You've not heard?"
"I've only just come back... You want me now?"
"Too late, I'm afraid. Shelton and Arrowby did their best, but—" Cheddington broke off in the middle of what was intended to be a subtle compliment. "We couldn't find you anywhere. You weren't at the club. I suppose you were called out?"
"No, I was not on a case, Colonel Cheddington." There was a note of irritation in Arnley's voice. "I had to go out on private business."
"Ah, that's a pity. If you'd been there it might have made all the difference... There's been another murder."
Cheddington wished that he had postponed the announcement until he could see the doctor's face. His surprise seemed genuine enough.
"Yes. Man called Gunby—a poacher and a bad lot. Know him?"
"I—I believe I attended him once, years ago," Arnley said slowly. "How—how did he die?"
"We don't know thoroughly yet—but we think it was the same as Scarsdale... Shelton had the idea that he might be brought back to life—"
"Nonsense!" Arnley said with what seemed excessive emphasis. "It's impossible—"
"Arrowby didn't think so. They had a good try."
"They—they didn't succeed?"
"No—unfortunately. You see, we've reason to believe that Gunby was in possession of evidence relating to Scarsdale's death. He must have tried to blackmail the murderer—and got murdered himself."
"Then—then there's nothing I can do?"
"Not immediately. I expect Arrowby will get in touch with you if he wants any help... We're just going along to the Hall to ask a few questions. Find out where people were, in fact."
There was a moment's pause. Arnley cleared his throat.
"Well, I'm sorry I was out, Colonel," he said. "Unfortunately, it was unavoidable... I've no doubt that Arrowby did everything possible... You've no clue to the murderer? Surely—"
"Oh, I wouldn't say that. It was bad luck your being out. A serious case?"
"I have already told you, Colonel Cheddington, that I have not been out on a case," Arnley said stiffly. "I had to go up to town—on private business. I have just got back."
"Oh, I see," Cheddington assented hastily. "Well, I don't think there's anything you can do now. You might ring Arrowby in half an hour or so and see. Sorry to bother you. Good night."
"Good night."
Cheddington was humming softly as he let in the clutch, but he made no comment. Only when they swung into the drive Wilkins felt urged to put a question.
"What did you make of him? What was he doing, do you think? He wouldn't tell us..."
"Oh yes, he did," Cheddington rejoined. "Twice. He had some private business—and went up to Town... Well, we may have to ask him again."
FROM the first glimpse of Slater as he ushered them in it was obvious that the news of the latest tragedy had not so far penetrated to the Hall. With some knowledge of the mysterious way in which tidings have a habit of spreading in country districts, Cheddington was almost surprised to find that it was so, but it suited his purpose.
"Sir Peter is out, sir," the butler informed them. "Mr. Turton is in the library, I believe... You would like to see him, sir?"
"And Mr. Faringdon?"
"Mr. Faringdon, I believe, retired soon after dinner. He was feeling unwell, sir."
Cheddington's eyebrows rose a little. One member of the household, it seemed, was repeating the alibi of the previous occasion.
"Yes, I'll see Mr. Turton," he said after a pause. "Just a minute, Slater. Something has happened which makes it necessary for me to see everyone in the house. I'd like some account of their movements since—well, since about seven o'clock."
"Something, sir?" Slater gave him a startled look. "Not—not Sir Peter, sir?"
"No, not Sir Peter." Cheddington eyed him. "Why should you think so? You meant he'd been murdered?"
"I don't know, sir... I didn't exactly mean murder, sir. But when you said something had happened—Sir Peter has been out all night—"
Cheddington nodded. Lame though it might seem, the explanation was natural enough.
"As a matter of fact, it is murder," he said after a momentary hesitation. "Though I don't want you to tell anyone. A man called Gunby. You know him?"
"No, sir." The butler's voice was a little hushed, but Cheddington thought he was speaking the truth. "I know very few people in this district, sir. I have always preferred to keep to myself, sir."
"I see. Now, in the circumstances, whoever committed this murder probably killed your master. You can see that I want to know where everyone was."
"Yes, sir." Slater reflected for a half a minute. "Well, sir, so far as concerns the domestic staff I think there will be no difficulty. I have seen most of them at intervals of a few minutes during the whole of that time, sir... And, incidentally, they have seen and spoken to me, sir. Of course, if it was just a matter of a minute or two—"
"No. We should want someone who'd been absent at least half an hour. Probably more... You said most of the staff. Who haven't you seen?"
"Benton, sir. You see, sir, this is his evening off. Provided that he is back by half-past ten, sir, it is no business of mine what he does."
"He went out?"
"I don't know, sir. Sometimes he would go out; just as often he would go up to his room and spend the evening quietly. He is a great reader, sir, for a man in his position."
"He's in now?"
"Yes, sir. I saw him only a minute ago. He didn't say he'd been anywhere. I shouldn't think it likely, sir."
"And Mrs. Woodney?" Wilkins interposed. Cheddington smiled a little, but none the less waited with interest for the answer. "You include her?"
"I took Mrs. Woodney her supper in the housekeeper's room at half past seven, sir. That was after dinner was over. I cleared about half an hour later. I expect she is still in her room, sir."
"And Mr. Faringdon's in bed, and Mr. Turton's in the library." Cheddington frowned a little. "Have you seen either of them since dinner?"
"I helped Mr. Faringdon upstairs, sir. He seemed very shaky. That would be—about twenty-five minutes to eight, sir. It was always Sir Arthur's custom to dine early, sir, and Sir Peter has made no changes."
"Dinner was at what time?"
"Quarter to seven, sir. Sir Arthur generally retired early. He found it suited him better not to dine later."
"Then you saw them all at dinner. Mr. Faringdon went to bed. Mr. Turton?"
"I believe he was working on the papers of the estate, sir. He said he wasn't to be disturbed unless it was something important."
"And you're sure about the staff?"
"Except Benton, yes, sir. I've not actually seen Benton. But I didn't see him go out, sir."
"Right. We can go into that later. I'll see Mr. Turton now, please."
"I will inform him of your arrival, sir."
Slater had turned to go when Cheddington stopped him.
"Oh, Slater. Don't mention what I told you to anyone—about the murder, I mean."
"To no one, sir."
Wilkins looked at his superior disapprovingly as the butler vanished.
"I wonder you told him at all," he protested. "He might easily warn them—"
"We had to give some reason for blowing along at this time of night and wanting to know where everyone had been all evening. Besides, I wanted to see how he'd react."
"He didn't react at all that I could see," the Superintendent grumbled. "Murders might be an everyday occurrence so far as he was concerned."
"Yes. That was partly his professional calm, I suppose. Also, that he'd already reconciled himself to the worst as soon as I said something had happened."
"And he thought of young Shelton."
"Nothing in that. Your master's just been murdered; there's a lot of talk about his successor. Then a policeman comes along and in a hushed voice says that something has happened, and he wants to know where everyone has been during the evening. Naturally one assumes murder, and Shelton's the likeliest and has been out all evening. Oh yes, that's quite a natural reaction."
"Well, maybe," Wilkins grunted a very grudging assent. "But there's Mr. Faringdon—in bed. And Mr. Turton—in the library, but no one's seen him. And there's Benton more or less at large... Not to mention Arnley."
"Arnley, I admit, I don't quite understand. But I don't know that the others are unnatural. Faringdon's a sick man—a convalescent, anyhow. And if Turton's executor, he probably has plenty to do. By the way, you haven't added Mrs. Woodney to your list. She's almost possible—if she nipped out as soon as Slater had cleared."
"Hardly." Wilkins shook his head. "She'd need half an hour at least to get to the cottage and back. Almost as much to commit the murder—I'm not sure. This wasn't so thorough a job as the other. But there's one thing which is in favour both of her and of the girl. Gunby told the innkeeper he was going to meet a gentleman. By the way, that's in Benton's favour, too. Beastly snobbish, the lower classes are. Gunby wouldn't think a valet was a gentleman."
"He might—" Wilkins was beginning when Slater's reappearance interrupted him.
"Mr. Turton will see you, sir," he announced. "He was very busy—asked if you couldn't call some other time. I told him it was important, sir, but nothing else."
"Good man," Cheddington approved. "And don't mention it in the servant's hall, Slater."
"No, sir."
Slater's voice was pained as he led the way towards the library. They had almost reached it when Cheddington spoke again.
"Oh, you might look up Benton, and send him along in about ten minutes—when I ring, in fact. And then—I hardly like to disturb Mr. Faringdon, but I'm afraid it's necessary. Would you go and tell him and ask if he's well enough to see me at once."
"Yes, sir."
Turton was sitting at the big table as they entered and his cordiality was distinctly forced. He was in evening dress, though a soft shirt to some extent modified the effect, and even more the pair of carpet slippers in which the costume ended incongruously.
"Rather late, aren't you, Cheddington?" he asked. "Wouldn't to-morrow have done? I'm frightfully busy. I'm expecting the lawyer down in the morning, and want to have things ship-shape for him. And Faringdon's on the sick-list—"
"Sorry. It was necessary," Cheddington apologised briefly. "The fact is—well, something's happened. We just wanted to check up on everyone."
"What? Something's happened? You needn't be so damn mysterious." His face changed suddenly. "Good Lord, you don't mean—not another—"
"Yes. Another murder—or it may be one."
"May be?" Turton was puzzled, but Wilkins was hardly less so. He did not understand this latest move of the Chief Constable. "Why, either it is or it isn't. What d'you mean?"
"Attempted murder might be more accurate," Cheddington explained. "The doctor thinks we may be able to bring him round again. Bring him back to life, in fact."
"Bring him back to life?" Turton echoed. "What—how did it happen? Drowned?"
"No. The method used was the same as with Scarsdale. That's why there's a chance... They're trying blood transfusions now."
"Blood transfusions?" Turton asked. "They? Who d'you mean?"
"Sir Peter Shelton and Mr. Arrowby." Cheddington was again disappointed. He could detect no sign of guilt in Turton's manner. "You see, if they can get the heart going he may be able to say who did it."
A light dawned upon Wilkins. In his heart he was admiring his superior's economy of the truth as much as the device by which he was trying to trap a possible suspect. Only it seemed to have no effect on Turton.
"Shelton's there, is he?" he asked. "Wondered where he was. He's been out all evening. So he's trying to bring the dead back to life, is he?" He laughed shortly. "Well, no harm in that... Who is it?"
"A man called Gunby. Know him?"
"Gunby?" Turton thought for a moment and shook his head. "Never heard of him... Oh, wait a bit. Isn't that the tobacconist at the corner of High Street?"
"No. This one's a poacher. Lives the other side of the park."
"Never heard of him. What's this about blood transfusions? Sir Arthur was poisoned, wasn't he?"
"Well," Cheddington hesitated, then leaned forward confidentially. "In confidence, he wasn't. The doctors are pretty sure that he died from loss of blood. The mystery is how he lost it—"
"They're daft—" Turton began and stopped. "Good God! You're not getting at this silly story about vampire bats, are you?"
"It's hard to see any other explanation," Cheddington said slowly. "And—there were two dead bats in the room when we found Gunby."
"It's bunkum. There aren't any bats in this country that suck blood... Unless someone brought them specially. South American, aren't they?"
"We're looking into that. Faringdon was there, wasn't he?"
"Yes. But he wouldn't—" Turton broke off. "Bats! Ugh! But you couldn't bring a man back to life if—"
"We'll know soon enough." Cheddington glanced at the clock. He was wishing that he had made some arrangement with Shelton about his return. "But I really came to ask where everyone had been all the evening."
"Oh. You're gunning for me?" Turton stared at him, and laughed. "Well, that's easy. I've been right here. Came here after dinner and stayed all the time. Except that I went into the little room there once or twice for a few minutes."
He pointed to a door to the right of the desk which stood ajar. Wilkins had been into that room the day before. It was little more than a cupboard, used as a store, apparently, for old papers and books which had passed the stage of being ornamental on the shelves if they had not outlived their usefulness.
"I see." Cheddington nodded. "You didn't see anyone? No one came in?"
"No one. Why?" Turton asked. "Oh, I see. You're trying to find me a nice alibi? Sorry I can't help you. You see, Faringdon had gone to bed; Shelton had said he'd be out all evening; and I told Slater I wasn't to be disturbed... No. I'm afraid you'll have to take it or leave it. Can't do anything for you."
Obviously what he said was reasonable enough, Cheddington reflected. With Faringdon and Shelton out of the way, there was no one who could have confirmed Turton's statement; but that was scarcely helpful.
"Faringdon went to bed early?" he asked.
"Yes. He was going to help me, but he nearly fainted while we were having coffee. Slater saw to him, I think."
"Then you can't help me any more?"
"I don't see how I can... By the way, about those bats—"
"Yes?" Cheddington prompted as he hesitated.
"Oh, nothing... I'd some kind of a recollection that Scarsdale had a specimen somewhere—a stuffed one, you know. It might help."
"Faringdon gave it to him?"
"Why, yes, he did, as a matter of fact... But look here, Colonel? that's absurd—" He forced a laugh. "It's as silly as your idea of bringing the dead to life. Or Shelton's, I should say, I suppose? You've seen him?"
"Yes," Cheddington said simply. "I left him there."
"You think it might be done?" Turton asked curiously. "Oh, well. You know your own business I suppose. Nothing more I can do?"
"Well, I'd like to see one or two people—just to clear things up. Mind if I see them here?"
"All right." Turton glanced desperately at the pile of papers. "You won't be long?"
"No. There's only Faringdon and the valet—Benton, isn't it. Wilkins, you might press the bell, would you? And, by the way, it would save time if you just verified what the servants were doing."
Wilkins rose unwillingly. He was sufficiently interested in Cheddington's experiment not to wish to be relegated to a routine job just at the moment when it seemed that things might be interesting, but he could hardly disobey the order. Besides, he had a feeling that there might be something behind the request.
Cheddington let him get to the door. "Oh, just a minute, Wilkins!" He crossed the room hastily, and his final words were muttered into the Superintendent's ear. "Sorry. Head off Shelton—put him on to the game. I'll have them all here. See what happens."
Wilkins nodded a cheerful assent. As he was about to close the door, the sight of the valet coming down the passage made him stop for a minute to signal to Cheddington.
"Benton's coming," Cheddington explained in answer to Turton's look of inquiry. "It just happens that Slater didn't know where he's been all the evening... You've not seen him?"
"I've told you. I've been here all evening. I've seen no one at all... Benton, the Chief Constable would like to ask you a few questions. You'd like me to go, Cheddington?"
"Not at all. I shan't be long."
In fact, Cheddington had not expected much from the valet. But the sight of the man's face almost made him change his mind. Benton was not merely nervous; he was scared. Cheddington deliberately waited a moment before he looked at his victim, who stood glancing from one to the other.
"Ah, Benton!" Cheddington said at last. "There are a few questions I'd like to ask you... You've been out to-night?"
Benton's hesitation was obvious. "Been out, sir?" he asked.
"You heard me, didn't you? Slater told me it was your evening off and that perhaps you'd gone out. Did you?"
"No, sir!"
The denial was almost over-emphatic, Cheddington decided. He frowned.
"Then where were you? Slater said he hadn't seen you."
"But why—what's happened, sir? It's not—it's not—"
"Well?"
Benton swallowed hard, and made an effort to regain his composure.
"I just wondered why you were asking, sir," he said respectfully. "I wondered if anything—"
"I see. But you haven't answered. Where were you?"
"I—I've not been out all the evening, sir. I went up to my room. I was reading, sir."
"Reading? What?"
The suddenness of the question seemed to take the valet by surprise. There was a perceptible pause before he answered.
"Dickens, sir!"
"What book?"
"Pickwick, sir!"
"And you didn't see anyone?"
"Not till I came down a few minutes ago, sir. To get supper, sir. If anything's happened to the young—"
"To whom?"
"I don't know, sir."
"Something has happened. Murder. That is, attempted murder." Cheddington noted that the man's pale face grew positively green. "You know a man called Gunby?"
"I—No, sir."
Cheddington's voice was mildly threatening. Benton clasped and unclasped his hands nervously.
"I—That is, sir. I know the name. The lodgekeeper pointed him out to me, sir. He's a poacher, sir."
"He was," Cheddington corrected. "He's been murdered—in the same way as your master. We're trying to bring him back to life again."
"Bring him back to life again, sir!" There was horror in his voice. "But, sir—"
"And you've been in your room all evening?" Cheddington asked relentlessly. "And you didn't see anyone who could say where you were? No one came in?"
"No, sir. No one would, sir." The valet spoke desperately, and Cheddington half sympathised. After all, his story was neither more nor less plausible than Turton's. "I didn't know the man, sir, not to speak to."
Cheddington considered. "Right," he said at last. "No—don't go. Wait over there for a minute, will you?"
As the valet obediently moved to the distant corner of the room to which Cheddington had pointed, Turton raised his eyebrows.
"Something fishy there," he murmured. "But he was devoted to Scarsdale."
"Maybe," Cheddington answered. "But you didn't believe him?"
"He may only have been scared. You weren't exactly reassuring, Colonel! If you'd treated me that way, I might have been scared myself."
He laughed, but Cheddington's face was serious.
"Yes," he said slowly. "You see, as a matter of fact, your alibis are exactly on a level. I'm not saying that I doubt what you say, Mr. Turton, but I wish there was some way of confirming it. You see, Faringdon's story will be practically the same. And everyone in this house is bound to be suspect, more or less, not only of Scarsdale's death, but of this murder."
"Well, if you bring him back to life he'll no doubt tell you." Turton laughed gratingly; then he grew suddenly sober. "It's a damned nasty position, anyhow," he said. "Oh, I appreciate your frankness, Colonel, but one doesn't like being told one may be a murderer... You don't really think the doctors will succeed."
"There's a chance," Cheddington lied, wishing there was. "And, of course, that would clear up everything."
"Hope you won't leave it at that!" Turton made a grimace. "If you'll excuse me a minute, Colonel, there's a letter I'd just like to give Slater... Shall I come back here?"
"If you don't mind waiting a minute or two—"
"Oh, I can scribble it here, if you'd rather. It's as serious as that, is it? We're under observation, eh? Just let me get some papers—there's no way out here."
Without waiting for Cheddington to consent, he moved towards the doorway of the little room. Cheddington had a momentary impulse to stop him; then told himself that he was being a fool. As Turton said, there was no way out that way. The opening of the door made him turn quickly.
It was Faringdon who entered, clad in a dressing gown and slippers and looking even paler than usual. But he was as self-possessed as ever, and greeted the Chief Constable courteously.
"Good evening, Colonel. I am sorry to have kept you. I am not at all well to-night... But Slater stressed that it was important."
"It is," Cheddington agreed. "Won't you sit down? There are just a few questions I should like to ask."
"Something has happened?" Faringdon asked. "Something new?"
"Why do you think that?"
Faringdon smiled a thin-lipped, mirthless smile.
"I've too good an opinion of your humanity, Colonel, to think you'd drag a sick man from his bed at this time of night if there wasn't anything... Unless, of course, you've finally satisfied yourself that I'm guilty?" He laughed as Cheddington opened his lips to disclaim the suggestion. "Why, of course we're all suspect—"
He broke off as Turton re-entered the room, carrying a sheaf of papers.
"Hullo, Faringdon, you're going through it, are you? I've had mine... I'll write here at the table, Cheddington. You can keep your eye on me then!"
Faringdon waited until Turton had seated himself, then looked again at Cheddington.
"Well, Colonel?" he asked. "What is it?"
"I came here, actually, in the hope of creating or destroying a few alibis," Cheddington confessed. "Yes, you're right. Something has happened. Another murder—or attempted."
"Attempted?"
"Yes. The murderer used the same method as on Scarsdale. We're hoping we may bring him back to life again by blood transfusion."
"Blood transfusion?" Faringdon gripped the arms of his chair. "But Scarsdale—"
"Died from loss of blood. How it was lost we're not sure. This time we may not be too late."
"Loss—loss of blood," Faringdon repeated in a dazed voice, "then—then—"
"Yes. I expect word at any moment. In the meantime, I was hoping to eliminate as many members of the household as possible from the list of suspects. I believe you have been in bed all the time since dinner."
"That is right... Of course, no one can confirm that. Slater took me up. I nearly fainted while Turton and I were having coffee here... But who was murdered? It wasn't—it wasn't—"
"A man named Gunby—if he was murdered. You knew him?"
"I never heard the name. But why? What had he to do with it?"
"We hope to find that out—if he comes round. The doctors are working on him now."
"You found him dying—"
"As Scarsdale died. But there were two dead bats in the room."
"Bats!" Faringdon whispered hoarsely. "Bats! But that—that story... It's impossible. It couldn't be—"
"He may live to tell us himself yet," Cheddington answered. If Faringdon was innocent, he was at a loss to account for his obvious agitation. "He is dead—in a manner of speaking. But there's hope—"
Faringdon rose to his feet and his hand went to his throat.
"No! No! Not that!" he said in a dreadful voice. "Don't say it? It couldn't happen—it couldn't!"
Even Cheddington was startled by the sudden outburst. Turton jumped to his feet and hurried across the room.
"See here, Colonel!" he burst out. "I know it's all in the game, but I'm hanged if I'll stand this. There are limits, even for policemen—"
"It—it's all right," Faringdon wiped the sweat from his face. "Don't interfere, Turton... You can't understand, of course, Colonel. I—I'm not well... If there's nothing more—"
"Unless you like to tell me something about vampire bats, I've no more to ask," Cheddington said grimly.
"No! I can't! I couldn't bear—"
He sank back into his chair and covered his face with his hands. Turton faced Cheddington belligerently.
"He's a sick man, Mr. Chief Constable," he said savagely. "It's torturing him—"
Cheddington shrugged his shoulders. "And why it's torturing him I don't see," he said meaningly. "Very well. I've no more to ask. We'll wait a few minutes here—until Shelton comes with the news—"
"Shelton?" Turton interrupted, and there was something in his expression which Cheddington could not interpret. "Shelton and Arrowby were attending him? Not Arnley?"
"He wasn't available. Why?"
"I wondered... Yes, we shall soon know!"
He settled himself comfortably into his armchair and took out his pipe. In the silence even the ticking of the grandfather's clock could be heard distinctly. All at once Cheddington rose to his feet. From the drive came the sound of an approaching car.
"Shelton!" he announced. "And now—"
BY the time Shelton reached the gates of the farm he was almost regretting the impulse which had made him decide to seek out the girl that night. He had to admit that more human feelings than any professional considerations had inspired the visit, and when he recalled their unsatisfactory conversation of that morning, he shrank from a repetition of any similar fencing at a time when he was thoroughly tired out. Only the memory of her scared face in the cottage and the Chief Constable's threat prevented him from turning back and gave him resolution to knock at the door.
The pleasant-faced woman who opened it eyed him with a look which was almost hostile, and stood waiting uncompromisingly until he spoke.
"Miss Mansfield?" he asked. "Might I see her? My name is Shelton—Peter Shelton—"
"That's as it may be," the farmer's wife replied. "As for seeing her, I don't know that you can. What did you want?"
"She's here? She came back?" Sudden alarm awoke in his mind. "But she must have done! Cheddington sent her in the car—"
"She came back," the woman said a little grimly. "Poor girl. She's had about all she can stand. What do you want bothering her now?"
"She—she's ill?" Shelton asked. "I'm a doctor, as a matter of fact. If I can do anything—"
The woman laughed. "A doctor?" she said a little derisively. "It's a pity you didn't take a bit better care of her before, Sir Peter, then a doctor mightn't have been needed... Wait here a minute. I'll ask."
Through the half-open door Shelton had a glimpse of the lamp-lit, homely kitchen, and felt a sudden relief that Sheila Mansfield should have found such a refuge at that time. He himself almost dreaded his return to the Hall, and the unpleasant atmosphere of suspicion and distrust. The woman's return seemed unduly delayed and the longer he stood there the less he knew what he was going to say. Then he heard the welcome sound of her returning footsteps.
"She'll see you," was the brief announcement. "And if you're a doctor, you'll know that the last thing you've got to do at the moment is worry her if the poor child's to sleep to-night. Come in. Mind the door. It's a bit low for your size."
Shelton looked round the kitchen eagerly. A man in shirt sleeves sitting beside the fire nodded good evening, but there was no sign of the girl. The woman motioned him towards the door which stood ajar on the far side.
"She's in there. Go right in."
As he obeyed, Shelton found himself wondering exactly how to reconcile the injunctions of the farmer's wife not to worry her with the mission which he had to perform. But the first glimpse of her face was encouraging. She even essayed a smile as she rose to greet him.
"Good evening—Sir Peter!" she greeted him, and from her lips the title had an oddly annoying quality. "It was nice of you to call... Or perhaps you've come in a professional capacity?"
Looking more closely, Shelton doubted the accuracy of his first impression. The girl's almost conventional manner was defensive; her nerves were evidently on edge, and he felt the difficulty of his task more than ever.
"No it's not a professional visit," he said gravely. "There will be no charge this time... In any case, shouldn't I be poaching on Dr. Arnley's preserves?"
A faint smile rewarded his rather feeble effort at humour. It encouraged him.
"I couldn't very well go home without finding out how you were," he continued. "That business was enough to upset anyone."
He realised his mistake as soon as he had spoken. A shadow crossed her face, and she shivered a little.
"It was—it was horrible!" she faltered. "That bat—and finding him dead... If I'd been alone—"
"I suppose Cheddington and the Superintendent would have been there anyhow," Shelton plunged. "They'd have looked after you."
"Yes, the police... I wonder how they would have looked after me? I don't doubt they think I need it!"
She laughed bitterly. Shelton, always in favour of a direct approach, decided that the opportunity was as good as any.
"That's partly why I came," he said bluntly. "Cheddington gave me—well, a sort of warning. He said that if I'd any influence with you I ought to persuade you to a more helpful attitude—"
"And have you?" she mocked defensively. "Of course, your personal fascination, not to mention your title—"
Shelton flushed and was silent; but the next moment she evidently felt some compunction.
"No, I shouldn't have said that. It was mean. And I'm—I'm really very grateful. You've taken me on trust, in the most suspicious circumstances. I know it looks bad for me, and I shouldn't blame you if you thought that I—"
"Of course, I don't believe for a minute you had anything to do with the murder," Shelton broke in. "And I doubt if the police do either. But you must see that there's a lot to explain."
"For instance?" She was on her guard in a moment. "Do you mean to you or to the police?"
"I've no right to ask for an explanation," Shelton began stiffly, "but—"
"Last night you said that you had a right. You were quite insistent."
"In a way, I think I had." Shelton was determinedly trying to keep his temper. "But that's not the point," he went on hastily. "Leaving me out of it, you must see the police will want to know some things. If I could tell them—"
"Perhaps there are things I'd rather tell them myself, if it comes to that," she said, and seeing his expression hurried on. "I don't mean that nastily. Only, after all, I haven't known you very long—not twenty-four hours. And the police are so—so comfortingly official!... What did Colonel Cheddington want?"
"Well, the money," Shelton replied uncomfortably. "He was evidently listening to what we said this morning—though I don't quite know how he managed it. We seem to have had quite an audience. If only Cheddington could have caught Gunby then—"
"I don't quite see what he could have done, though, do you... The money? I told you about that—"
"But he wants to know why my uncle gave it to you, and why you tried to bring it back secretly. I'm not sure that he believes the story at all."
"And you?"
There was a spot of colour on either cheek, and she looked at him defiantly.
"I believe what you said—but you can see that it left out a certain amount. Not that there was anything wrong, of course. But you can imagine anyone with a mind like a policeman thinking—"
"I'm not sure I can—or a baronet. Thinking what?"
"There might be suggestions of—of blackmail or something," Shelton explained. "If you could prove why—"
"Can't prove anything. You'll just have to believe me—or not. So will the police." She laughed bitterly. "Oh, I can imagine what you mean. I was the intriguing secretary, and your uncle was a naughty or sentimental old man. Which he wasn't. He was one of the kindest men I've ever known, and we got on well together. He was only stupid about one thing—"
"What was that?" Shelton asked as she stopped.
"That is exactly what I have no intention of telling you—Sir Peter! I was a fool ever to consent—and that's why I put the money back."
There was a brief silence. Shelton felt the futility of pursuing this particular point any further at that moment.
"Well, there are other things they might ask," he said. "Perhaps you could tell them where you were at the time my uncle must have been murdered. If they knew you couldn't do it, you see, they wouldn't press you, I should think, about the money—"
"Would you really think that? I'm doubtful about it myself." The recklessness in her voice ought to have warned Shelton, but it did not. "If you want to know, I was travelling down by the night train from Manchester to London."
"Alone?"
"Alone."
"Of course, the railway people might remember you," Shelton said unhappily. "Or perhaps you could confirm it somehow?"
"I couldn't... And what else would the police like to know—not to mention Sir Peter Shelton?"
"Cheddington said that you left the farm some time before I arrived, but didn't apparently reach the cottage until afterwards," Shelton said, ignoring the taunt. "That was so, wasn't it? Why?"
"I was lost."
"But you know the district," Shelton objected. "You'd been here some time before. They'd say it couldn't happen—"
"And I could only say it did. Yes, I know the district, but it's the first time I ever had the pleasure of calling on Mr. Gunby. I took a wrong turning somehow. I expect I wasn't thinking how I was going. And it was dark, and I was thinking—thinking about—"
Her voice broke, and she covered her face with her hands, sobbing convulsively. Shelton was at her side in a moment.
"Sheila!" he appealed. "Sheila... I didn't mean—I'm an ass, but I only meant to help you. I want you to count on me. I don't care whether you explain or not. I came here with the best of intentions—and now I've done just what your landlady warned me against... You've got to stop crying, if only to save me from her!"
The girl raised a tear-stained face, but her lips trembled into a smile.
"She's a dear, isn't she? I'm sorry I was silly. But I don't see what I'm to do. Because I don't want to explain about that money and can't prove anything, the police are bound to be suspicious. I don't blame them. I should be myself... Only you can see what a hole it puts me in."
"Look here," Shelton said firmly, "you say that you don't want to tell them about the money—not that you can't. Well, wouldn't it be more sensible to tell them and have done with it? Anything's better than being charged with murder."
The girl's cheeks reddened suddenly. "But they couldn't do that," she said after a pause. "They've no evidence that I—that I could have done it. And I think I'd sooner be suspected than tell them—Besides, they wouldn't believe it—now."
Shelton frowned. In spite of his recent protestation he was consumed with curiosity. But the girl's determination was obvious. He reviewed the possible alternative courses of action gloomily for a moment.
"If only we could find out who did it," he said at last with a trace of desperation. "That would have to satisfy them—"
The girl laughed, this time with real mirth. "Two brilliant amateurs showing the police where they get off!" she exclaimed. "You think we might succeed where the detective force of the County failed? Not to mention Scotland Yard, perhaps?"
"Look here, Sheila," Shelton began a little irritably, "it's not so silly as—"
"Sheila?" She smiled at him. "If you'll pardon me, sir, I don't believe—as my grandmother would have said—that I ever gave you permission—"
"Well, I may?" Shelton demanded. "And if it's all the same to you, I'd be glad if you dropped that baronet stuff—except when you particularly want to be annoying... It's not so silly as it sounds. After all, I am a doctor, and I believe that this is a murder that a doctor might spot where a detective didn't. And then, I'm in the house all the time, and I know more or less what's going on. And you knew my uncle—"
"I oughtn't to have laughed. It's really awfully nice of you to think of it. But somehow, I can't quite picture you as the hard-faced sleuth on the trail—" She laughed as Shelton's jaw set in a good impersonation of the part, and then stopped abruptly. "If we did—" she said almost to herself. "If we did—"
"I believe we might," Shelton urged. "As I said, you knew my uncle. I suppose while you were writing that book for him he told you all about his travels. Can you think of anything—anything at all—which might give us something to start from?"
She wrinkled her brows in thought for a moment before she shook her head.
"I don't believe there was anything," she said doubtfully. "I can't imagine any man less likely to be murdered really. I don't see why anyone should do it."
"Turton? Faringdon? He probably spoke of them. You see, it's almost certain to be someone in the house—"
"Oh, he talked about them, of course, but there wasn't anything that could possibly give a motive... I suppose that leaves the servants. And they're no better from the point of view of suspects. Slater and Benton have been with him for years—"
"Benton?" Shelton said suddenly. "Why, now I come to think of it—do you know, I thought I saw someone who looked familiar coming across the park after me to-night? I've an idea it might have been—"
"Only I'd never believe Benton would kill Sir Arthur... You see, it's hard to imagine any reason, however fantastic. If Benton had done any of the ordinary things like forging a cheque or pinching the spoons and had just gone to Sir Arthur and told him, Sir Arthur would just have said a few rude things to him and told him not to do it again!... Oh, I don't expect you thought of him like that, but he was really awfully fond of you—"
She broke off. Shelton lit a cigarette thoughtfully, only afterwards remembering to offer his case. She shook her head.
"It's one of the vices I failed to acquire," she explained. "Besides, it's expensive, and I've generally been hard up... So, you see, I can't see any reason, unless the murderer was mad—"
"Mad or sane, he was pretty cunning... And he so nearly got away with it. You know, Arnley would have signed that certificate like a shot... Of course, there's Arnley. I never thought of him—He benefits under the will—a little. Five hundred pounds—"
"A little? Perhaps you've never needed a hundred pounds badly. Supposing that his professional reputation was at stake somehow—" As Shelton smiled she raised her hand to stop him from speaking. "Oh, I know it sounds absurd, but so do half the reasons for murder, don't they? No, I don't mean necessarily his being struck off the register, or anything like that. But if he had to sacrifice his position here, among the nobility and gentry of the county—you know, I think he'd almost commit murder to avoid that."
Shelton raised his eyebrows. "As a matter of fact, the type of crime does point to someone with medical knowledge," he admitted. "I've been trying to work out how it could have been done—"
The sound of a knock on the door made him break off. It opened to admit the farmer's wife. She looked at Sheila anxiously, and seemed satisfied with what she saw, for she nodded at Shelton approvingly.
"There's a policeman wants you, Sir Peter," she announced. "Superintendent Wilkins it is. He asked me to get you to come at once."
"He wants me? Not Miss Mansfield?"
"It was you he asked for. Said it was important. They wanted you at the Hall."
"Would you say I'm coming right away?" Shelton asked. As the woman nodded and withdrew he turned to the girl reassuringly. "It's nothing serious—I'm not going to be arrested or anything," he said. "I'm pretty sure Cheddington's given me up as a bad job... Look here. I must see you to-morrow. Then we'll talk things over properly. Will you?"
"If you like—" she hesitated; then assented. "Yes. Shall I meet you or—"
"I'll call here. I've had enough secret meetings... To-morrow then—if we're both at large! And don't worry."
She was smiling bravely as he went out. Even as they crossed the kitchen to where the Superintendent waited in obvious impatience the woman managed to express her approval.
"You've more sense than you look like having," she commented. "Quite cheered her up... He's here, Mr. Wilkins."
The Superintendent wasted no time in preliminaries. Though he had cast a curious glance towards the door from which Shelton had emerged, at the moment there were more important things on his mind even than whatever the girl might have said.
"The Chief Constable would like you to come to the Hall at once, Sir Peter," he said. "I've a car here. I'll explain as we go."
Shelton felt the slightest possible trepidation. In spite of the Chief Constable's assurance that he was no longer suspect, he wondered what was behind this sudden summons. Wilkins guessed what he was thinking and smiled.
"It's nothing to do with you personally," he reassured. "It's a little idea of Cheddington's. Come along."
The car was bumping down the lane leading from the farm when Wilkins condescended an explanation.
"We might have got Arrowby," he said, "but we thought you'd be quicker. Cheddington had the idea suddenly. He's told them that there's still a hope of bringing Gunby round, and he's keeping them in suspense until you come with the news. I never had much faith in that scheme of yours, but it might be useful that way. You see, if one of them is guilty, it'll be pretty tough on the nerves just waiting there to see if the man he killed had anything to say afterwards—"
"Them?" Shelton queried.
"At the moment, Faringdon, Turton and the valet, Benton. Unfortunately we gave the game away to Arnley before we thought of it. You see—"
"Benton? I shouldn't have thought he was even possible. And yet—"
"Yes?" Wilkins prompted as Shelton broke off. "You've got something on him? I don't mind telling you that we haven't—except his manner and that he's one of the few people at the Hall who hasn't an alibi... What is it?"
"Only I fancied that I saw someone like Benton as I was crossing the park. The light wasn't very good. I couldn't swear to it."
Wilkins whistled softly. "I thought he was just nervous when I saw him going in to the library," he said. "Wonder if Cheddington's got anything out of him."
"I can't believe that Benton killed my uncle. I admit he's not been very pleasant so far as I'm concerned, but that's because he thought that I'd got something to do with it. But you said something about Arnley."
"Yes. He's another person familiar with the Hall who seems to have been unaccountably absent to-night."
"I admit I think he's an old ass—particularly about that luminal. But I don't see much against him."
"He gets five hundred under the will—"
"But his practice here must be worth a couple of thousand at least. Surely that wouldn't be any inducement?"
"It's a quarter of a year's income at that. And if Arnley does get two thousand a year, I'd bet he spends it. A man like that might easily have some use for a good lump sum down. And then, there are other points. You can see, I expect, that whoever the murderer was he was almost certainly someone who knew the house. He might have been in the house, or he might have lived there previously, or he might have been a frequent visitor there. But if it wasn't anyone staying in the house, it was someone who knew it well enough to get inside without any trouble."
"Yes," Shelton admitted doubtfully. The thought crossed his mind that Sheila Mansfield certainly came under the second of these categories. "But still—"
"Wait a bit. There's something more... I think you'll agree that whoever did this had some kind of special knowledge—either about bats, if you believe that idea, or about handy ways of killing a man like a doctor—"
Shelton smiled a little. "I don't believe in that bat theory much myself," he said after a pause. "Yes, I think after seeing the body to-night that there's no doubt the murderer had some knowledge of anatomy. He couldn't have punctured that vein so neatly without."
"Arnley fits the bill there. Another point. Your uncle was under a sleeping powder at the time, wasn't he? And you thought Gunby had been drugged. Well, it looks as if this way of killing people isn't any good unless your victim is insensible or partly so. In fact, the murderer must be one of the people who knew Scarsdale had taken or was going to take luminal that night, and with access to some drug to give Gunby. Arnley fits both."
"Yes. But that seems to dispose of Benton."
"Only another thing might put him back on the map again. I don't suppose you know that a former master of his was found dead in his bed? Supposed to have poisoned himself, and a verdict of suicide—but it mightn't have been... And then, I've gone into the habits of everyone at the Hall fairly thoroughly. Benton's a great reader. Couldn't he have found out how to do it from books?"
"I suppose he could," Shelton said slowly. "Though I don't know... I never found books on anatomy much good without practical work myself. I mean, you can learn the names and so on, but unless you've done some dissection, you couldn't pick out a vein or artery in a living body so neatly. In fact, if a man knew all the anatomy text-books by heart, diagrams and all, I'd back a nurse with any experience to do it better."
Wilkins opened his mouth as if to speak, and stopped just in time. He shot a curious glance at Shelton; but the young man was obviously unconscious of any particular significance in his words.
"I see," Wilkins said after a pause. "Well, Benton's never been a nurse, anyway."
There was the faintest possible emphasis on the valet's name, but Shelton did not detect it. "There's another objection to Arnley as a suspect," he said. "The motive is so obviously insufficient. I don't know what Arnley's financial position is, but unless he's darned badly dipped, he'd be able to borrow on the security of the practice... I suppose it's hardly occurred to you that a medical practice is a commodity to be bought and sold just like anything else—generally at two years' purchase. Well, there are masses of insurance companies and so on simply pining to lend people money to buy practices these days. There'd be no difficulty about his borrowing a bit on a practice he already owned."
"He may have done that already," Wilkins countered. "We'll find out... But look here. We're nearly at the Hall. What exactly is your programme do you think? I can't tell you any more than that Cheddington wants to convey the impression that Gunby has come round."
"It's not much good my saying he's spoken. Because then I'd have to say who he accused, and that's just what I can't do. No. I think it's better to spin things out a bit—prolong the agony; then tell them part of the truth. Because we did come pretty close to pulling it off, though you may think it nonsense, Superintendent. Yes, I think that's it—"
Shelton was going over his part as the car drove up the avenue, and Wilkins, guessing what was happening in his mind, did not interrupt his thoughts. He himself was thinking that, even in view of Shelton's preposterous conduct, the young baronet would be the perfect suspect still, if the alibi Cheddington had suggested could not be substantiated. He had every intention of going over it with a fine comb, and the fact that Shelton was at that moment helping the police did not affect him. After all, he reflected, any murderer would, if it was to save himself. In the meantime, another point had just occurred to him which might have some bearing on the guilt or innocence of Benton. When the car stopped, he turned to Shelton as he was in the act of opening the door.
"I'd like you to wait a minute in the hall," he said. "I'll be right back. You've got your stuff all fixed?"
"I think so," Shelton answered confidently.
"Good... Johnson!" He leaned over to speak to the driver of the car. "You'd better come along with us. Slide in unobtrusively, just behind us, and stand by the door... That's settled."
To Shelton, keyed up for action, it seemed a long time between the Superintendent's departure up the stairs and his reappearance carrying something in his hand only partly veiled by the towel which he had plundered from the bathroom in passing. The young man looked at the irregular parcel curiously, but Wilkins gave him no chance to ask a question.
"Right, Sir Peter," he said a little breathlessly. "If you'd come right after me—Come on, Johnson."
Shelton tried to compose his face to an appropriate expression as their footsteps echoed up the corridor.
ALL four men were staring towards the library door as it opened to admit the Superintendent. The first glance told Shelton that Cheddington had done his work well in playing upon the nerves of his three suspects. Each in his own way was trying to conceal the tenseness of expectation which animated him. The valet stood twisting his hands nervously half way down the room, and his scared face was pale in the shadows just outside the circle cast by the reading lamp. Gripping the arms of his chair until the knuckles showed white through the sunburn, Faringdon was leaning forward with an expression which was a blend of feelings in which horror predominated, and Turton, the most self-possessed of the three, though he sat with an assumption of ease, still held the pipe which he had been on the point of putting into his mouth where it had been arrested in mid air by their entrance.
Cheddington acted his part to perfection. As Shelton entered, he stepped forward with an eagerness which might have convinced anyone.
"Well?" he demanded. "Gunby? He—he's—?"
Quite naturally, his hand went to the main light switch. Benton started as the sudden glare brought him suddenly into the full light.
"Arrowby and I have been treating him ever since you left us," Shelton began. Now that it had come to the point he found it more difficult than he had expected. "Of course, you are aware of the man's condition when we found him, Cheddington?"
"Yes. Yes. Get on, man!"
The Chief Constable's impatience might have deceived even Shelton, had he not seen the wink which accompanied it. He guessed it was merely a further effort on Cheddington's part to pile on the atmosphere, and continued imperturbably.
"The greatest difficulty, of course, was the interval of time which had elapsed," he went on, and somehow he found himself looking at the staring eyes of Faringdon as he spoke. "Apart from the transfusions, we had to get the heart starting and administer artificial respiration. The difficulties were enormous. It was never more than a hundred to one chance—or a thousand to one. I am glad to say that, up to a point, we succeeded—"
Something between a cry and a gasp from Faringdon interrupted him. Wilkins stepped softly to one side, ready to cut off any possible escape by the window. The constable who had followed them in was already by the door.
"You—you succeeded?" Cheddington burst out. "You mean—?"
"I mean that we succeeded in getting the heart to beat again—"
"No!"
Faringdon almost shrieked the word as he jumped to his feet. His face was working horribly, and his outstretched hands trembled as if with an ague. Crossing the gap which separated them almost in a bound, he gripped Shelton's arm painfully.
"You're lying!" he burst out. "Lying! Alive—after that—it couldn't happen!"
Shelton met his wild eyes unwaveringly. "You are mistaken, Mr. Faringdon," he said evenly. "It is perfectly possible. Without going into technical details, the proof is that it did happen in this case. Mr. Arrowby—"
"No!" Faringdon urged again, this time quite softly, with a kind of desperate appeal. "Not alive—It couldn't happen, could it, Shelton—"
"It did happen," Shelton countered. "The heart beat—"
"Not without doctors—a person would be dead then? Really dead? No matter what one did—"
His gaze searched Shelton's face. Suddenly his grip loosened, and he drew a deep breath. For a moment he covered his face with his hands.
"He's alive?" Cheddington prompted. "He spoke? What did he say? Who killed him? Good heavens, Shelton! Can't you see—"
Shelton glanced from one to the other before he spoke. Except for Faringdon, they were almost exactly as they had been when he entered.
"You may say that he was actually living in a sense, for a minute," he said slowly. "He's dead now... We couldn't keep it going."
Faringdon's gasp of relief was clearly audible in the silence. His hands dropped to his sides. He looked up, and to Shelton it seemed as though there was a sudden joy in his face.
"Then—you failed!" he said. "Even the two of you—"
"But did he speak? Did he say anything?"
Cheddington's question took Shelton aback. He had carried the little drama as far as he had intended, and in a sudden revulsion of feeling he hated the deception. Not even to convict a murderer could he carry it much further. He made one more effort.
"He said—" he began and paused.
There was not a sound in the room. Everyone seemed turned to stone.
"He said—nothing!" Shelton was aware of Cheddington's disappointment, but he ignored it. Suddenly the tension seemed to have relaxed. Faringdon staggered back to his chair and collapsed into it. Looking down at his pipe, Turton apparently became aware that he was still holding it there. He eyed it doubtfully, then pocketed it and reached for the cigarette box.
"Well done, Sir Peter!" There was something slightly derisive in his approval. He smiled. "I'd no idea your qualifications extended so far—as a doctor, or an actor!"
He struck a match and lit the cigarette before he continued. Cheddington was looking irritable. There was a suggestion of anti-climax. Turton spoke again.
"I see the idea," he said. "One of us three's the guilty man, eh? Prolong the agony a bit, and we might break down... Well, what's it to be now? Third degree? Or have you finished with this foolery Colonel?"
Cheddington flushed. He did not like having his artifice exposed quite so obviously. Turton's words, he was only too well aware, would put whoever was guilty on his guard. At that moment he heartily wished that he could convict Turton himself.
"It's my business to convict a murderer, Mr. Turton," he said bluntly. "Yes. Circumstances point to one of you three—among others. I did not feel justified in neglecting any chance."
"Among others," Turton repeated. He turned to Shelton. "You and Arrowby were alone in this little resurrectionist stunt?" he asked. "Arnley wasn't there?"
"Dr. Arnley was not available," Cheddington interposed as Shelton flushed. "Sir Peter and Mr. Arrowby did everything possible—"
"Not to mention what wasn't!" Turton rejoined. "And Sir Peter was among the actors—not the audience! That means he's acquitted, eh?"
"I had to investigate every possibility, Mr. Turton," Cheddington said stiffly. "Sir Peter, as you say, has been helping me."
"I see. Right. Finished now?"
Cheddington ignored him. He turned to Shelton. "If there's a room where we could be private," he said, "there are one or two matters I should like to discuss with the Superintendent."
"By all means," Shelton assented. "If you'll come along—would the gun-room do?"
Cheddington nodded. He was feeling annoyed and disappointed. Except for Faringdon's outburst, his scheme had failed, and it had failed completely to bring the confession of guilt that he had hoped for. Turton barred his way as he was about to go out.
"I don't expect you heard me, Colonel," he said. "Is this nonsense finished? Or do we sit up till the small hours for you?"
"I have no further questions to ask you at the moment, Mr. Turton," Cheddington controlled his temper with an effort. "And, of course, you are always at liberty to refuse—and take any possible consequences!" He looked at Shelton. "Right! Come on, Wilkins."
Shelton escorted them as far as the door of the gun-room and was on the point of leaving them when Cheddington stopped him.
"You needn't go unless you like," he said. "I'd be glad of your impressions—and there are one or two other things."
He threw himself wearily into a chair. Shelton felt moved to an apology.
"I'm sorry if I didn't do it right," he said. "I carried it as far as I could but—well, I'm not a good liar. And it was rather beastly, Faringdon—"
"What did you make of him? Oh, I'm not blaming you. In fact I think you probably did the best thing. You see, as it was you practically confined yourself to the plain truth. A lie might have been awkward. What did you make of Faringdon?"
Shelton hesitated, and before his eyes there seemed to come a vision of Faringdon's drawn, horrified face as he had played Cheddington's game in the library. He shivered a little.
"I don't know," he said after a pause. "It looked as though he was afraid of something. Of course he was. But he's been ill... It's hard to explain what I mean." He stopped and looked first at Cheddington and then at the Superintendent. The latter raised his eyebrows slightly. "He was afraid of something," Shelton said after a pause. "But was he afraid that Gunby had denounced him as the murderer? Frankly, I don't believe he was. It seemed to me as if it wasn't so much fear for himself as fear—well, about the mere fact that someone dead like that might possibly be revived. That's all I can make of it."
Cheddington nodded. "And you, Superintendent?" he asked.
"I'd say that short of a confession he behaved as guiltily as anyone could," Wilkins said decidedly. "He was broken right up at the very idea as soon as we came in. He recovered himself a bit when he found that nothing had happened... Anyway, it's not only to-night. Who started this vampire story? Who fainted at the sight of Scarsdale's body? And he'd as good an opportunity as anyone on both occasions."
"Turton?" Cheddington asked without comment on Wilkins's statement.
"He hardly seemed affected at all," Shelton admitted. "I don't like the man, I'll own, but I can't see that there's a thing against him... I suppose he might have been able to do it to-night, but if he did, he must have a pretty good nerve. It's a pity no one went into the library. Then we could be sure."
"We don't know yet that no one did," Cheddington answered. "Turton said no one did. We'll look into it later... Well, there's Benton."
"Something funny about him." Wilkins held up the towel-wrapped package which had excited Shelton's curiosity. "His story is that he's not been out tonight, isn't it? Well, look here."
He pulled the towel aside to reveal a pair of shoes which showed obvious traces of damp earth.
"His?" Cheddington asked. "Why—?"
"Sir Peter told me he thought he'd seen someone like Benton going across the park," Wilkins explained. "I'd noticed he was wearing slippers. It was worth while seeing if he'd changed. Looks as if he has."
"But there's no reason why he shouldn't go out," Shelton objected. He liked the valet, in spite of the fact that the feeling was evidently not reciprocated. "It was his evening off—"
"There's no reason why he should deny it, either, if he's nothing to hide. I think we might press him a bit."
"And Faringdon," Cheddington added. "We might ask them in turn and put them through it again, even at the risk of showing our hand. We're getting nowhere. It would be something even to clear a few people out of the way. And there are all sorts of points which want clearing up... I'm going up to London to-morrow, all being well." He sighed a little gloomily. "If no one else gets murdered!"
"What?" Shelton looked at him in surprise. "You don't think—"
Cheddington nodded. "Unfortunately I do. It's only too obvious that the murderer, whoever he is, is absolutely ruthless. He killed Scarsdale for some reason we've not found out yet. He killed Gunby because Gunby could have told people who did it. He might kill other people for the same reason."
"But who?"
"Well, yourself, for example!" Cheddington rejoined. "He may know that you'd had some sort of dealings with Gunby. In fact, Gunby may have told him. But he may not know that Gunby told you nothing at all. You might be next on his list! Then there's Miss Mansfield—"
"Miss Mansfield? You don't think she's in danger?"
Shelton jumped to his feet. "Why—we can't leave her at the farm alone. We ought to—"
"She's in just as much danger as yourself, I should say. And that's one reason why I'm having the farm where she's staying watched to-night. You needn't worry about her... I said one reason. There's another. Did she give you any kind of an explanation about that cash? You see, if she is innocent, we want to get her out of the way. And where she was before she got to the cottage?"
"She couldn't possibly—!" Shelton protested; then frowned. "No, she didn't explain," he admitted. "Only I know there's nothing wrong."
"As for you, if you've no objection, I thought I'd stop here with Johnson myself, until things seem a bit more settled. We could take turns watching. Then, if anything happened, we'd be on hand. I'm not using you for a bait exactly—nor Miss Mansfield. But if any attempt was made—"
Shelton nodded. "I'll see about it at once," he said. "Shall I see Slater now?"
"Wait a bit. We're going to examine Benton again. You say you saw him. Where was that?"
"That's going too far. I saw someone, right the other side of the park. I'd been hurrying pretty hard, and waited to get my breath. I was surprised when someone came out of the park after me, and at the time something about him struck me as familiar. But he saw me too, and went on. Afterwards, thinking it over, I placed the resemblance to Benton."
"Near enough." Cheddington nodded to Wilkins. "If you'd get Benton?"
The Superintendent rose obediently, and it was clear from his expression as he went out that there was a task after his own inclinations. But Cheddington cast a glance at the towel-wrapped shoes and smiled wryly.
"No, I don't think it's Benton," he said, catching Shelton's eye. "He doesn't fit the part, somehow. Any more than you or Miss Mansfield. All the same, I wish she'd talk. You see, our problem both this time and last is, not that everyone has a good alibi, but that so many have got equally bad ones. And several people are concealing something—but not necessarily the fact that they're murderers. If one could clear away the people who're behaving suspiciously for wrong reasons—"
He sighed. There was a moment's silence. Shelton frowned at the shoes; then looked up.
"Isn't that unusual?" he asked. "Why should there be so many people with something to hide?"
"Not really. Take your own case, and assuming you're innocent. You hadn't killed your uncle—but you knew there were people who thought you had. You knew that there were circumstances which pointed to your having killed him. You'd even dreamed that you'd killed him—" Shelton started, but Cheddington went on imperturbably. "So, when it came to the point you didn't tell us the truth. And, later, after you'd met Miss Mansfield, you lied again—for another reason—"
"The mounting tide of colour in Shelton's face made him break off with a smile.
"But Benton—" Shelton began. "He'd no reason to think we suspected him at first—"
"No. And, at first, he was an impeccable witness. He told the whole truth—so far as we could check it. Then, something cropped up which he didn't want made public. He lied." He cocked his head to listen as the sound of footsteps approaching down the corridor became audible. "He'll lie this time, if possible. Because he's frightened. Fear makes more liars than anything—Benton undoubtedly looked decidedly uncomfortable as the Superintendent grimly ushered him in. He glanced from Cheddington to Shelton with almost equal apprehension; then looked back at the Chief Constable bracing himself like a man who faces the worst. Cheddington motioned him to a chair facing them and waited until he was seated.
"Benton, you lied to us," he accused suddenly. "You said you'd not left the house. Then how do you account for these?"
He whipped the towel off the shoes as he spoke. The valet paled perceptibly, but said nothing.
"These were the shoes you were wearing," Cheddington continued relentlessly. "There's damp mud on them. But you say you've not been out?"
"No, sir!" Benton protested shakily. "I—I went out. In the garden. Earlier in the evening. I didn't think—"
Cheddington leant forward as the man's voice died away. "You went out in the garden?" he asked. "Earlier on in the evening? But the mud's wet... Supposing Sir Peter Shelton said that he saw you, the other side of the park, not half a mile from where Gunby was murdered. Well?"
"It—it's not true, sir," Benton licked his dry lips. "I mean, sir, Sir Peter was mistaken. I was reading, sir—"
"What?"
Benton hesitated as Wilkins barked the question.
"Dickens, sir," he said. "Nick—Pickwick Papers, sir."
Cheddington drummed his fingers on the table in front of him. For a moment there was silence. Benton seemed to be aware of the accusation implied by the absence of comment.
"It's the truth, sir!" he burst out. "I was in my room—"
"No one saw you," Cheddington said relentlessly. "You were just sitting there. You saw no one—"
"No, sir!" Benton interrupted desperately. "I did say that no one came into my room—not that I didn't see anyone. I did—through the window. "I saw Mr. Turton, there in the library. He was working at the table—"
"When?"
Cheddington almost barked the question. The valet met his eyes squarely.
"Several times, sir," he answered. "Once, I know, about a quarter-to-eight. Again, perhaps half an hour later. Then sometime later on—"
"He was sitting at the table?"
"Yes, sir. No, that is—once he was moving about the room. The second time, I think, sir."
"You can see into the library from your room?"
Cheddington put the question to the valet, but glancing at the Superintendent he saw his colleague's nod of assent, and scarcely needed Benton's answer.
"Yes, sir."
The Chief Constable toyed with his pencil for a moment before looking up.
"Well, Benton," he said after a distinct pause. "We'll check up what you say. But mind this. If you're innocent, you'd better tell us the whole truth—even if it is something that you'd rather not have known. Anything's better than being hung. And if you're hiding anything—"
He broke off. To Shelton it seemed that the valet cast upon him a look which was full of appeal. Cheddington suddenly jerked his head towards the door.
"All right," he said. "You can go. Think over what I've said."
But Benton hesitated, looking from one to the other. It was with an air of desperation that he turned towards the door. Wilkins closed it behind him; opening it a moment later to make certain that the valet had indeed gone down the corridor. He looked at Cheddington.
"Well?" he asked.
"He's lying!" Cheddington scratched his nose absently. "But what's he lying about? And why? One thing, we can confirm part of what he said. If Turton was in the library at those times, and doing what he said—"
"It might give him a kind of alibi?" Wilkins finished the sentence for him. "Yes. But have you thought—it does something else?"
Cheddington raised his eyebrows inquiringly. It was Shelton who broke in, as a sudden illumination flashed across his mind.
"Why, of course!" he ejaculated. "It clears Turton—at least, confirms his story of what he did... That gets one suspect out of the way."
Cheddington was drawing designs absently on his notebook and frowning. He did not look up when he finally spoke.
"Yes," he said. "It looks like it. If they both tell the same story, short of collusion—and there's no evidence of that—" He broke off, abruptly raising his head. "What—? What's that?"
But Wilkins had also heard the crash which had interrupted his superior. He was already on his feet, making for the door.
"The library!" he turned to say with his hand on the door-handle. "Something fell—or a shot?"
He was hurrying up the corridor before either Shelton or the Chief Constable had left their seats.
WILKINS was standing in the doorway of the library as the two of them rounded the corner. He was staring into the room with the tense attitude of a man who expects someone to spring out upon him, and Shelton noted with surprise that his right hand held a revolver. As he heard them, he looked round quickly, glanced at the gun in his hand and pocketed it with a comically shamefaced air.
"What the devil—" Cheddington asked. "And why the hardware?"
Wilkins only pointed. Looking over his shoulder, Shelton saw immediately the cause of the alarm. One of the big glass-fronted bookcases to the left of the fire place had crashed forward into the room amid a medley of shattered glass and scattered volumes. And, right in front of them, lay the deer's head which, as he had explained to Cheddington earlier in the day, had been moved there out of the way from the table.
"No one there?" Cheddington asked, pushing forward into the room.
"No one." Wilkins advanced with him, frowning in bewilderment. "But I don't see how anyone got out—"
Before he had finished the sentence, Cheddington was at the window, and had tried the catch.
"Unlatched!" he announced briefly. "That might be it or it mightn't. Where is everyone?"
Shelton had remained diffidently in the doorway. A confused noise behind him made him turn, to receive at least a partial answer to the Chief Constable's question. Slater, Benton, and Mrs. Woodney, backed by a considerable portion of the household staff were just rounding the corner of the passage. Half-way down the stairs, Faringdon had stopped, holding on to the bannisters and swaying like a man who is about to faint. Then he seemed to regain control of himself. He descended the last half-dozen stairs more quickly, and reached the library door even before the crowd of servants.
Wilkins turned upon them savagely.
"Inside!" he snapped. "In the room—all of you!"
Shelton was conscious of one absentee from the scared group which gathered in front of the hearth. Where was Turton? The Chief Constable seemed to notice the same thing as he crossed the room towards them.
"Where's Mr. Turton?" he asked. "Slater! Have you seen him?"
"He went up to his room, sir, about a quarter of an hour ago." Even the butler's composure seemed to be shaken. "I've not seen him come down—"
The sound of a footstep in the passage outside interrupted him. As they turned to look, Turton was just hurrying towards them from the foot of the stairs.
"What the hell—?" he demanded. "What's happened? I heard the smash even upstairs—"
His eyebrows rose in surprise at the sight of the disorder in the library. He looked at Cheddington inquiringly.
"That's what we want to know," Cheddington's voice was grim. "Where were you all? Slater?"
"The staff, sir, was in the servants' quarters," the butler answered instantly. "That is, sir, except—"
He broke off, but there was no need to specify the exception. Benton thrust forward suddenly, and the pallor of his face seemed due rather to anger than fear.
"Look here, I've had enough of this!" he burst out. "Being questioned and suspected and accused of—"
"No one's accused you—yet!" Cheddington broke in. "Well, where were you?"
"I was going back—sir." The valet conquered his emotion with difficulty. "But I was upset, sir. I didn't want them to see— If the old master was living—"
"Well, where were you when you heard the crash? You did hear it, didn't you?"
"In the passage leading to the servants' hall, sir."
"That's right, sir," Slater confirmed. "We rushed out at once and found him there."
Cheddington thought for a moment. It was quite possible that the valet, singled out from the household for special questioning might wait a moment or two to compose himself before returning to meet his fellow servants who were bound to be curious. On the other hand, though in the interval between their hearing of the crash and reaching the library it would have been difficult for anyone to escape up the stairs, it might have been practicable to gain the servants' passage. He turned to Faringdon.
"You were in your room?" he asked.
"Yes, Colonel. I was just getting back to bed. I'm still feeling shaky. It took me longer than it might have done to reach the stairs—"
"You met no one? Passed no one?"
"No."
Turton did not wait for the question.
"I was in my room, too. Just going to bed." He raised his hand to his collar to indicate the untied bow of his dress clothes. "Of course, I'm a floor further up. Wondered what the devil had happened—thought it must have been a darned loud crash if I heard it up there. I came down."
As if struck by a sudden thought, Wilkins crossed the room to open the French window, and the next moment had disappeared through it on to the terrace. Cheddington saw the flash of his torch in the darkness outside. Bending down he retrieved one of the books which had fallen from the shelves and glanced at it. It proved to be nothing more exciting than a volume of the "Golden Bough."
"Why should anyone go here?" he asked, unconsciously slighting a great monument of scholarship. "Anything behind that case? In the panelling—a safe?"
"Not to my knowledge." Turton glanced at the others as he answered, and Slater and Faringdon shook their heads in confirmation of the denial. "Damned if I know why anyone should open that case. They're the kind of books that one might read on a desert island."
"Unless something was hidden there?" Faringdon suggested mildly. "Of course, when we looked through the papers we didn't examine all the books. Something might have been hidden—"
Cheddington frowned thoughtfully. He glanced up as a draught from the French window signalled the Superintendent's return, only to see a negative shake of the head from his colleague. Wilkins's search of the terrace had evidently proved as barren as his own interrogation. He made a gesture of dismissal.
"Right. That's all—to-night. We'll look round here—"
Slater marshalled the servants out of the room. Faringdon also turned immediately, but Turton delayed as if something had suddenly occurred to him.
"I've just remembered. Scarsdale was writing that night—and he'd talked of changing his will. Could he have hidden it there? A smallish envelope—I'd recognise it."
"Thanks, Mr. Turton."
Cheddington's voice discouraged the invitation to stop which Turton seemed to have been hoping for. "If it's there, we'll find it. Then I'd be glad if you'd identify it—to-morrow."
Without risking a further rebuff, Turton nodded and went out. Wilkins was on his knees shaking the books systematically as Cheddington closed the door.
"We'd better do that, I suppose," he said as he turned towards the Superintendent, "but I'd bet it's no good. You see, if anyone had just wanted a book, I don't see how the bookcase came to fall. No, whoever it was was moving the case. It's a solid piece of work and it was too heavy for him."
Wilkins shook his head, and pointed to a chair which had been overthrown in the crash.
"No," he rejoined. "That chair must have been right in front. Someone was looking for something on the top shelf—"
"Or on top? That would really be out of reach."
"There wasn't anything on top—"
"Oh, yes," Cheddington pointed to the antelope's skull, and as he looked had the sudden fancy that it was leering at him sardonically, "there was that."
"And if you'll tell me why anyone should bother with that I'd be grateful." Wilkins eyed the skull dubiously. "You don't think someone was stealing it?"
"I don't know. But I don't see any other reason why anyone should try to reach the top... Oh, we'd better get busy."
As Cheddington carefully but without hope sounded the woodwork behind where the case had stood, Wilkins resumed his task of examining the books. Cheddington had moved over to make a further examination of the window when the Superintendent finally abandoned his task.
"No good," he announced. "If there was anything there, it's gone."
"I don't believe there was. What Turton referred to was the envelope you found." Cheddington turned to scowl at the wreckage. "No, it was that head. It must have been. But why?"
The Superintendent shrugged his shoulders. "And who?" he asked. "One consolation—it wasn't Shelton. He was with us. And it wasn't any of the servants—"
"Except Benton."
"His yarn might be true," Wilkins confessed reluctantly. "And it wasn't Turton. He was right at the foot of the stairs when we saw him. He couldn't have got up in time, if he'd been here. And I looked on the terrace. No one had climbed up since last time—even if I hadn't locked the windows."
"That leaves Benton—and Faringdon—"
"And Arnley and the girl. The window was unlatched."
"That's a point. Was it unlocked because Slater hadn't done the locking up yet, or did someone open it deliberately? I'd be inclined to say it was the first. Unless he locks up early, he wasn't able to get in here, because we were talking. But how could anyone outside have known that?"
"I'll check up on both of them, though," Wilkins grunted obstinately. Then he looked round the room and sighed. "This case is the devil," he said with feeling. "We don't know yet how Scarsdale was killed. Except for Shelton—and he's doubtful—we don't even know who couldn't have done it—"
"Shelton doubtful? I should have thought tonight—"
"Shelton couldn't have pushed this case over. That's no reason why he shouldn't kill Scarsdale."
"You think the two aren't connected?"
"Don't see why they should be any more than the girl and the notes. You seem to have decided she didn't do it... That's not all. We've still found no motive—except robbery or the quarrel with Shelton."
"And the letter Scarsdale was writing. Funny Turton should think of that."
"Funny?" Wilkins echoed. "I don't see why. I suppose he thought whoever did this was looking for something, and naturally thought of a will. He didn't know what it was... No, whichever way you look at it, there's not a clue."
"Yes, there is." Cheddington nodded again at the skull. "There's that."
"Not to mention a couple of dead bats," Wilkins said with a trace of sarcasm. "And they're ordinary bats. I'll take my oath on that."
"That's something I'll find out to-morrow. And about this trophy of the chase. I'm going up to Town."
"Handing over to the C.I.D.?" Wilkins asked with reluctance. "Well, I suppose—"
"No, I'm not. But there are several inquiries I want to make. For one thing, there's Langdon-Smythe. We need him badly. The Yard may be able to find him. Then there are the bats—and this."
He indicated the skull again and, ignoring the Superintendent's grimace dropped into a chair and began to fill his pipe. Wilkins followed suit, not without a glance at the clock. Cheddington did not speak until his pipe was well alight.
"We'll go through our possibles again, in the light of fuller knowledge," he said thoughtfully. "Let's see what our murderer's like. First, he's some special knowledge about how to commit the murder. Secondly, he's completely ruthless. He's a good inside knowledge of the house and its working—probably he's in the house. He's probably connected in some way with this man Langdon-Smythe—and possibly with big game hunting—"
Wilkins made a scornful noise, but Cheddington ignored it.
"I don't see where that gets us," Wilkins objected after a pause. "I suppose you mean Faringdon or Turton. But we've not a vestige of evidence that either of them knows anything about medicine. Until we get hold of Langdon-Smythe we can't find any conceivable motive for them... The only man who seems to fit the bill as being able to do this murder, if you rule out Shelton, seems to have been Arnley."
"And Arnley is possible. The night Scarsdale died, he's got exactly the alibi everyone else has—he was in bed. To-night he's no alibi so far as we know. He just went up to Town on private business. He's got a motive, since he inherits under the will. And though it's only £500 it's quite possible he needs the money. The difficulty is, how he got into the house to kill Scarsdale—and perhaps to-night. After all, this window is generally locked."
"If Arnley happened to be a burglar, I wouldn't let that worry me. That lock's no earthly good. It's funny that people who are careful about doors often don't bother about French windows—which are about twice as vulnerable. We can't rule Arnley out."
"No. He gave Scarsdale the luminal. He must have had a pretty fair idea that Scarsdale would take some that night—perhaps he even told him to. But one doesn't see, in that case, why he ordered the post mortem."
"Shelton pretty well forced his hand. If he was guilty, he'd hate to appear reluctant. He's the one man with motive, means, and possible opportunity. He fits at practically every point we can verify."
"Except the big game." Cheddington smiled at his colleague's gesture of impatience. "But we'll leave that. What about Faringdon?"
"He's as likely as anyone. It's natural enough he should have been in bed once; but not that he should turn queer and retire early to-night—just when someone was doing Gunby in. I'd say that there was something fishy about that."
Cheddington nodded. "Yes," he said thoughtfully. "That's very curious. We've an indication of a motive, in his financial arrangements with Scarsdale. I'm not sure, even, that he's not got the character. He seems mild enough, but a man doesn't pull off the kind of stunt that he does unless he's got a lot of nerve. That polite manner of his is deceptive. And he fainted when he saw the body—or pretended to faint. And the vampire business started with him... You know, I don't believe in the trained vampire bat business much myself—"
"That's a consolation," Wilkins interpolated. "It's the big game now?"
"Yes." Cheddington smiled. "But the point is that Faringdon is the only one to whom that kind of idea is likely to occur. And he was distinctly shaky, both when we spoke of bats and when he thought Gunby might come back to life. He might know some way of killing a man so as to make it look as if a bat—or bats had got him—"
"He brought that up, though, before there was any idea of murder."
"Yes. But if Scarsdale's death had been accepted as natural, that would just have been put down to the fact that his mind was wandering. If anyone noticed something wrong, he could easily bring it up. And he fits the big game business—whatever that's got to do with it."
"I don't see how he could have got upstairs in time," Wilkins objected.
"The point is that we have no evidence he was upstairs. But it's just possible that he managed to bolt half way up, as far as the turn, and then pretended to be coming down. No one saw him upstairs. He was with us when Turton came."
"Well, then, how about Turton?"
"No obvious motive—"
"Which is a damning piece of evidence against him, as you'd say—like Mrs. Woodney."
"Perhaps." Cheddington actually seemed struck by the idea. "Apart from that, he's the man who had the worst opportunity of killing Scarsdale. He'd have to go along a passage, past the entrance to the servants' wing, down the stairs and along another passage to get there. Faringdon was just next door. Then to-night, if Benton's telling the truth, he simply couldn't have killed Gunby. He wouldn't have had time. And if he'd gone upstairs after knocking this thing over he must have met Faringdon, or else the servants... So it seems pretty certain that he didn't do this show—or kill Gunby, if Benton told the truth."
"But it seems fairly improbable that Benton did?"
"Yes. Because when you asked him what he was reading the second time, he started to say Nicholas Nickleby instead of Pickwick. That certainly seems to show that he wasn't reading Dickens. But it doesn't necessarily invalidate his evidence on this point, where he might have been proved a liar. And, so far as we can tell, it fits in exactly with what Turton did... I'd almost be inclined to think that he was just scared that we should find out something he'd been doing—robbing the spoons, or courting, or something."
"It seems generally agreed that he'd never have killed Scarsdale. And the motive for killing Gunby depends on Scarsdale's death... Only he might have been a confederate to someone who did."
"We're losing sight of Turton. He's no medical knowledge so far as we can tell. He's shown no signs of being scared. No motive, no means, precious little opportunity—"
"And therefore the perfect suspect," Wilkins said sarcastically. "Not to mention the big game."
"Almost as good as Mrs. Woodney—there's not even the big game against her! Well, there's our choice—"
"There's the girl," Wilkins said seriously. "If she wasn't in the house, as Scarsdale's secretary she knew all about it. She's no alibi. She certainly had something to do with the missing thousand. She was out to-night when Gunby died. We don't know if she could have done this or not—"
"She'd no medical knowledge," Cheddington objected. He was conscious of some surprise at the gravity of the Superintendent's face. "And, hang it, Wilkins, the whole idea's absurd. She couldn't have killed anyone—well, like this!"
"Because she's a charming girl? Who knows? As for the medical business—You didn't know she worked as a probationer in a hospital for over a year?"
"What?" Cheddington jumped to his feet. "You didn't tell me... Good Lord!"
"And she had bought a hypodermic syringe—presumably for her invalid mother... And she called attention to the bat first at Gunby's cottage."
Cheddington seated himself with a gloomy frown, and lit his pipe again. He had puffed at it for some time in silence before he spoke.
"You remember what I said the other day—about the original murder being extraordinarily well planned, so as to leave no clues whatever? Well, so was Gunby's. There's a clever brain somewhere behind this—but I think it's a brain with only limited knowledge."
The Superintendent's eyebrows rose. "I thought we said that medical knowledge was an essential point," he objected. "The man had to know how to do the killing—"
"Yes. I think the limitations of his knowledge come in afterwards. I mean that, though the murderer is an expert in how to kill people in this particular way, he's not unduly gifted with imagination, and not excessively well educated."
Wilkins looked up and seemed about to speak, then he made a despairing gesture.
"But, in any case, why commit a murder like this? It's pretty gruesome, so far as I can work it out; it takes a long time; it's a method which is bound to be identified with a certain class of persons—"
"That's not so hard to answer as you might think... One might say that the natural vanity of a murderer would make him try to commit a murder by a method he'd discovered simply because it had never been tried before, even though it wasn't the best. But I don't think that that's the explanation of Scarsdale's murder at least. No. Scarsdale's death was intended to seem natural. So the murderer couldn't hit him on the head, or suffocate him, or shoot him. That would have been noticed. There remains poison. Well, he might have poisoned Scarsdale; but there was one obstacle, and one which the murderer must have borne in mind. I found it quite accidentally, while I was hanging around here early this morning."
The Superintendent only looked his interrogation. Cheddington rose and, crossing the room, removed a volume from a shelf. He handed it to Wilkins without comment.
"'Toxicology; a treatise.'" He looked up in bewilderment. "But I don't see—"
"Who wrote it?"
Wilkins obediently turned the fly-leaf. "Why—Good Lord! It's Arnley's!"
"Written, if you'll look at that date, twenty years ago. All the same, it does mean that Arnley, for an ordinary practitioner, had a most extraordinary knowledge of poisons."
"You don't mean—it isn't poison after all?"
"It might be. Arnley might have extended his researches and found a new poison—but I don't think so. Arnley's been peacefully asleep in this practice for years. But he did know about poisons, and that cuts two ways. If Arnley were in his right mind, and were going to commit a murder, he'd do it any other way than by poison; because poison is the one way in which he'd be particularly suspect. And, as an authority on the subject, he'd know just how difficult it was to use a poison that couldn't be detected... Or else, the murderer knew that Arnley, sleepy general practitioner though he might be, still knew about poisons, and could be relied upon to spot the symptoms. So he had to choose some extraordinary means—and, mind you, quite probably some method he'd had a secret hankering after for some time. Because I doubt if either of these was his first murder."
"But why?"
"There's nothing impulsive about this crime. Most amateur murders, so to speak, are committed in the heat of the moment, with the nearest blunt instrument, or whatever comes handy. This is a cold-blooded killing—planned and deliberate. Then there's that letter Scarsdale wrote—and the bullet. Isn't the most likely explanation of Scarsdale's death that that bullet had killed a man, and that Scarsdale somehow knew who fired it?"
Wilkins shook his head dubiously. "Too much theory," he said, and paused. "If only we could get hold of Langdon-Smythe—" he broke out. "Then—"
The opening of the library door interrupted him Shelton advanced diffidently.
"If you are stopping the night, Colonel," he said, "I've fixed up your room—"
Cheddington glanced at the clock. It showed a quarter to twelve. He rose to his feet.
"Good heavens! And Wilkins's wife will be thinking he's the latest victim! Yes, I'd like to stop—just in case."
"I'll show you your room any time—if you've finished?" He looked at Cheddington, who nodded. "And the Superintendent?"
"No!" Wilkins said hastily. "That is, Colonel, unless you want—"
"Not at all. Go home to bed—and pray that the morrow may bring wisdom. Right, Shelton."
In the doorway Cheddington turned. Retracing his steps towards the wrecked bookcase, he picked up the skull and returned towards the door. Wilkins raised his eyebrows.
"Why—?" he began. "I'm putting Johnson in here—"
"Company—just for company. I might feel lonely in the night. Right, Shelton!"
Wilkins's face was a study in bewilderment as he followed them up the corridor.
THE departure of Colonel Cheddington by the early morning train for London was duly noted by the inspector who punched his ticket on his rather breathless arrival at the platform. He might have been even more intrigued if he could have guessed the contents of the Chief Constable's luggage; for the untidy brown paper parcel contained the antelope's skull, and the neat suitcase had as its unconventional contents the bodies of two dead bats and a battered bullet.
Cheddington sighed with relief as he gained an empty carriage and sank into a corner seat; for his progress from the Hall had not been uneventful. He had successfully eluded the attentions of more than half-a-dozen "gentlemen of the Press," whose one immediate object was to have speech with him, with the Superintendent, and with any conceivable person who might provide some information, true or false, to accompany the headline "Vampire Murders."
His forebodings of further trouble at the Hall had not been realised. When Slater fulfilled his instructions by calling him at an unwontedly early hour, he had roused himself not without anxiety, conscious of having slept heavily enough to have missed a massacre; but the butler's report had shown that all was well. Still sleepy from his vigil of the previous night, he dozed rather than thought during the greater part of the journey, and only managed to rouse himself to full wakefulness as the first gaunt tenements signalled the approach of the terminus.
The weight of his unusual baggage more than anything else decided his first visit. Among his numerous acquaintances he had recollected the name of Charles Bandridge as a Fellow of any number of learned societies connected with zoology, and presumably a sufficient authority on the particular subject of vampire bats. His first taxi took him to Kensington, where he interrupted his friend at breakfast.
"Vampire bats? In this country? Nonsense!" Bandridge's walrus moustache almost bristled at the idea. "They've never been recorded anywhere, outside South America. I admit that there's a lot more to be done on the subject. The inaccessibility of the places where they breed—"
Colonel Cheddington shrugged his shoulders resignedly. Without answering he opened the suitcase to expose the two small corpses which it contained.
"Vampires!" Bandridge absolutely laughed at the sight of the exhibits. "Why, Cheddington, if you were looking for a couple of normal specimens of the English bat you couldn't do much better. There's not the least doubt."
"You're sure?" Cheddington persisted. "They're quite harmless?"
He indicated the two rows of needle-sharp teeth. For answer Bandridge stretched out his hand towards a bookcase and selected a weighty volume.
"There!" he answered, after turning over the pages for a moment or two. "That's the photograph of the one you're asking about. See the difference?"
Cheddington eyed the print sadly. Perhaps it was not a flattering representation of the vampire tribe; certainly it was even uglier than the mouse-like heads of the victims which he himself had carried there. Even to his untutored eye it was plain that Wilkins had been right. The thought might have depressed him; instead, his spirits seemed to rise.
"Yes," he assented. "There's not much doubt, is there? I suppose that no scientific man with any training in zoology—I mean, with any knowledge of the particular branch dealing with vampire bats—could think for a moment that anyone could mistake the two? And the English kind is harmless?"
"The teeth are sharp enough, but I doubt if it could bite you if it tried... You're on that vampire murder business, I suppose. I saw a paragraph in the morning paper."
"A paragraph!" Cheddington exclaimed. "I've seen columns... But then, I suppose your light breakfast-table reading is the Times? Yes. That's what I'm on. And these bats are no good?"
"I don't believe any bats would be any good—if the reports are correct. I seem to have read that your latest victim showed only a punctured wound in the throat—puncturing an artery? That's correct?"
Cheddington nodded. "That's right," he assented. "A tiny dot of a wound—like a needle-prick."
"Then it probably was a needle—not a bat. Even a vampire bat has to make a distinct bite. Looking at it coldly, how do you think it's going to make a wound like that? What's it going to use?"
Cheddington bowed before the storm. He packed the corpses away without answering. Only Bandridge's curious eyes made him unwrap the brown paper to reveal his second exhibit.
"Ah, that's more interesting!" Bandridge peered down at it, warming to his subject. "African antelope, of course. But I've never seen one quite like that. Quite an unusual specimen. From Scarsdale's collection, I suppose? And what, exactly, has that got to do with it?"
"I wish I knew." Cheddington sighed. "Nothing, perhaps... What do you make of it?"
"That's scarcely my subject... I think though, you'll find it's almost a unique specimen. Two good shots that got it, too. Medium sized bullets—"
The words awoke a dim memory in Cheddington's mind. He rummaged in the case to produce his last specimen in its tissue-wrapped package. Uncovering it he handed over the battered piece of metal.
"Like that?"
"Probably—though I'm no judge." Bandridge passed it back to him. "But your bats are no good, Cheddington. You'll have to find a human vampire—like Dracula, you know. Though even then, if my memory serves me, there were two pricks, weren't there?"
Cheddington smiled as he repacked his suitcase; then his face suddenly grew more serious.
"It's a human vampire I'm looking for," he said seriously. "You may think what you've told me is a great blow. It isn't. It's just what I wanted to hear—that this bat couldn't be mistaken by anyone who knew for a vampire, and that the wound on the corpse could not be caused by a vampire."
"That's fine... You'll lunch with me? No? Getting right back on the job? Sometimes I envy you, Cheddington—"
The Chief Constable was wondering why anyone should envy him as he hailed a taxi and instructed it to convey him to Scotland Yard. The chief sensation of which he was conscious was that all kinds of rays of lights ought to be piercing the gloom and were just failing to do so. After only a short wait he was ushered into the presence of the Chief Inspector for whom he had asked.
"Come to throw up the sponge, Cheddington?" the other greeted him. "Yes, I saw about last night... And we're infernally busy just now, I don't mind telling you. I don't know who we'll be able to send you—"
"I'm not calling you in, yet, anyhow." Cheddington's smile was a little forced. "I expect the newspapers will be cursing me by to-morrow. This second murder—"
"I don't see that we could have stopped that. By the time we'd got a man down, it would practically have been done... What is it, then?"
"First, a little expert assistance." Cheddington again unwrapped the skull, and placed it, with the bullet, on the Chief Inspector's desk. "I'd be glad if you'd put your bright lads on to finding out if it was a bullet like that that killed this antelope—it is an antelope, I believe, and a very rare one. And if there's anything about it which might make a man risk getting hung to remove the evidence it gives."
The Chief Inspector raised his eyebrows, and only when the two exhibits had been removed to whatever mysterious quarter where the investigations were to take place, leant back in his chair and lit his pipe.
"What is the trouble, Cheddington?" he asked. "I've only seen newspaper reports."
"Too many suspects; too many people playing the damn fool; not enough with alibis," Cheddington answered succinctly. "We've too many suspects, and we've had the luck of the devil. Last night, there ought to have been a few alibis—and there weren't any worth mentioning."
"Maybe that's part of the murderer's scheme. I mean, if he couldn't provide himself with a good alibi, he might arrange that several other people, equally suspect, should be equally badly off. Does that fit?"
"So far as Scarsdale's murder is concerned? No, it doesn't. You see, the only alibi that they give us is that they were in bed and asleep. Which is awkward, because it's the one place where they ought to have been... It didn't need anyone to arrange it. It was simply the natural thing to happen. If anyone had had an alibi I might have suspected him! And as for Gunby's—" He broke off and rubbed his chin irritably. "No, I don't see how it could work there, either. And yet, I've a glimmering—just a faint theory—"
"Avoid theories." The Chief Inspector said it with the air of a man who makes a quotation, or states a platitude. Then he grinned. "And I suppose none of us do! But the real point is, what lines can investigation follow? What facts can be ascertained? You'd better tell me about it."
He listened attentively as Cheddington recounted the progress of the case up to date. As the Chief Constable finished, he frowned thoughtfully.
"I don't see what on earth the antelope's head can have to do with it," he confessed. "Of course, the key point seems to be this man Langdon-Smythe. It can't be more than a matter of hours before he's found—and I can only hope that he's some good when you do find him... Otherwise it seems to be a matter of exploring the grisly past."
"Wilkins has been doing his best on that, and he's done pretty well. He found out all about the girl, for example. As for people like Faringdon and Turton, how can you find out about them? One day they're in one corner of the earth—another in the next. Arnley's past seems irreproachable. Benton's, so far as we gather, has only that one thing in it—the master who committed suicide. And there we are."
"The girl's got to speak out. No, I don't think she knows who did it—but you've got to find out about that cash. Why the devil should Scarsdale give her all that, invalid mother or not? It's certainly worth looking into... If the past of all these people is all right, how about the present? Had Benton been pinching the silver? Is Arnley in danger of being struck off the register—"
"It's odd you should say that. I've heard that Arnley's practice has suffered. He might want that five hundred badly."
"Badly enough to do murder for it? I doubt it. A man like that—"
The return of the antelope's head interrupted him. To Cheddington's surprise, there were now two bullets. The Chief Inspector glanced at the scribbled report.
"Bullet No. 1, sent with the specimen, was certainly fired from the same gun as bullet No. 2—extracted from the bone," he announced. Cheddington started. This explanation had not occurred to him. "Furthermore, in all probability, bullet No. 1 caused the second wound in the bone... It has probably been recently extracted—within the last few days."
"Then, by heaven, that's it!" Cheddington jumped to his feet eagerly and eyed the two battered fragments of metal. "If it happened within the last day or two, that may be the reason why Scarsdale was murdered!" His optimism died as suddenly as it had arisen. "And yet, how the deuce could it have been? How does it link up? What other words of wisdom has your man got to say?"
"Old type of rifle—Express. Highly characteristic marking on bullets. It hardly needs him to tell us that. Anyone could see that the same gun fired those two."
"Yes," Cheddington agreed, eyeing the bullets thoughtfully. "Anyone could see that... And I fancy that's important, somehow. It's unreasonable, but I've an intuition that this darned skull has something to do with the whole show. Otherwise, why should the murderer risk everything last night—"
"If he did." The other's reply was doubtful. "Everything's too wrapped in mystery to suit me... We'll do our best to find Langdon-Smythe, and anything else in which we can help you, of course. In the meantime, good luck with your vampires! Don't get bitten yourself."
Cheddington was a prey to mixed emotions as he set off in search of lunch. He had the feeling that a part of the solution of the mystery had been given to him as a result of his morning's work, but the more he thought about it, the less clear he became how far it had helped him. He had walked aimlessly, to the considerable danger of the public and himself, for some little distance before the claims of hunger began to assert themselves. He had made a poor and early breakfast. Food was called for—food on the masculine scale of Simpson's or the Cock Tavern. With his mind on beefsteak pie and mushrooms rather than on vampires, he set off briskly, cursing the weight of his baggage, and the inexplicable fate which rules that taxis are always absent when most needed.
His manner was that of the provincial, with his eyes on all the street as if looking out for an acquaintance. Even so, he had almost missed the man who plunged out of a doorway just in front of him, and the apology was on his lips before recognition came.
"Sorry—Good Lord! Arnley!"
The little doctor stopped dead in his tracks, as though he had been shot. The face he turned to Cheddington was as white as paper. Then he flushed angrily.
"What the devil's this?" he burst out. "How dare you follow me? What do you mean?"
"My dear chap—!" Cheddington began placatingly, and realised that a more dignified form of address was likely to have more effect. "Really, Dr. Arnley, I don't understand you."
"Why are you spying on me? Why have you come here?"
"I'm not spying on you. If you think my normal method of shadowing anyone is to bump into him on the pavement—well, you've a poor idea of police methods. Besides, why the devil should I?"
He himself was probably more prepared to answer that question than Arnley. The doctor's wrath subsided abruptly.
"I—I owe you an apology, Colonel Cheddington," he confessed. "When I saw you, I jumped to a conclusion—"
"That I was trailing you?" Cheddington laughed. "Not a bit. I came up to town on business—private business, like yourself."
The doctor winced visibly, and Cheddington pursued his advantage.
"I couldn't possibly know that anything was going to bring you to town—especially in surgery hours. As for following you, I imagine you followed me if the truth were known. So I ought to be the one to take offence!"
"My assistant is in charge," Arnley explained nervously. "I—I had business to do..."
"So had I, as I said. But it's finished now. I'm looking for lunch. Care to join me?"
Arnley looked about him as though seeking a way of escape. The very taxi for which Cheddington had been praying chose that unpropitious moment for its arrival, and the doctor's raised umbrella made it swerve abruptly to the kerb.
"Sorry, Colonel—no time. Should have been delighted." He opened the door as he spoke, and called to the driver. "Paddington! Hurry!"
Before Cheddington had time to restrain him, the door had slammed and his prey was already receding down the street. No other vehicle was in sight. Cheddington found himself praying that the doctor's destination was indeed that which he had said, and that he was returning peaceably home. If Arnley were the murderer and had slipped through his hands so narrowly... He caught sight of a telephone kiosk not far up the road and was on the point of hurrying towards it when something made him pause to glance at the name plate of the door from which Arnley had emerged. Meekly discreet in white Roman lettering on bronze it announced no more than "R.C. MILLENSTEIN."
Cheddington whistled. For, as a student of newspaper advertisements, he recalled other legends associated with the name.
"Five to five thousand pounds on note of hand alone," he murmured aloud. "Advances under wills. Post dated cheques cashed..."
Clutching the parcel to his breast he almost ran towards the telephone.
SHELTON had risen early that morning with the full intention of speaking to the Chief Constable before his departure for the station. At the last moment he had changed his mind. Perhaps in reality the demand for some explanation from Sheila Mansfield rankled in his mind; but he told himself that the idea which had come to him was one which was officially inadmissible, and, to Cheddington, could only be justified by its success. A murder had been committed by extraordinary means; by a weapon which nine people out of ten could never recognise as such. During the night, he had worked out what materials were necessary to produce a death in the circumstances of Gunby and his uncle; it was his intention to search for the means of committing it. In his heart, he wondered that neither Cheddington nor Wilkins had instituted any kind of a search; but they were clearly at a disadvantage. They had still no idea what they were looking for; now, Shelton believed that he had.
He watched Cheddington drive off without accosting him. Before the other members of the household were astir, he had already breakfasted and, returning to his room, was listening through the partly-open door for the sounds which would indicate that Turton and Faringdon had gone downstairs, and that the coast was clear.
Turton came first. A distant footfall on the upper staircase caused him to glance out cautiously, just in time to see the other's retreating back. That accounted for one of them. But Faringdon seemed an unconscionable time. It was quite a quarter of an hour before the opening and shutting of the door showed that the explorer had gone down to breakfast. Again he risked glancing out to make sure. Now, barring the servants the way was clear. It should be at least half an hour, and probably more before either of them came upstairs again.
He stepped out into the corridor; then hesitated. The door of Faringdon's room was invitingly close; but of the three possible suspects, Turton, Faringdon and Benton, he was inclined to think that the valet's room should receive his attention first. It would be easy enough to invent an explanation if one of the servants should surprise him in the room of either of the guests; it would be more difficult in the case of a servant. After only a momentary doubt, he made his way to the servants' wing.
Benton's room was already tidied, and its simplicity seemed to offer little scope for concealment. Not without a twinge of conscience, he faithfully went through the valet's belongings, without finding a trace of what he was looking for. And the room itself seemed to defy concealment. There was no possible place in the plastered walls and ceiling; the floorboards seemed to be intact. If Benton were the murderer, he was satisfied that the weapon must have been concealed elsewhere.
Turton's room came next, if only because it was the nearest; but here the amount of luggage made his search longer. Yet he was practically satisfied that nothing could have escaped his notice when he at last closed the door behind him and glanced at his watch. His operations had taken longer than he had expected. At any moment there was the risk of being interrupted, judging by his knowledge of the household arrangements, but he made his way downstairs and cautiously opened the door of Faringdon's room.
It was in a drawer of the washstand that he first made any discovery which seemed at all possible. A flat case revealed itself as the resting place of a hypodermic syringe and three needles, apparently unused. He looked at them dubiously. It was possible, and yet he would have expected something larger. Still, it was a hope. He was scrutinising the needles with an attention which made him forgetful of the need for being on his guard when the opening of the door made him jump up guiltily.
Fortunately it was not Faringdon who had entered. It was Benton, and the valet, seeing him, was scarcely less taken aback than he was himself. Shelton put a good face on the matter.
"It's all right, Benton," he said easily. "You can come in here if you want. Mr. Faringdon just asked me to look for something for him... I've just got it."
With an assumption of unconcern which he did not feel he extracted one of the needles from the case and replaced it in the drawer. Benton accepted the explanation unsuspiciously; but he did not look Shelton in the eye.
"Yes sir, I'd just come to tidy up and see to Mr. Faringdon's clothes—"
"Right. Then carry on." Shelton comforted himself with the reflection that the valet could have no idea that he was making a search of his guest's belongings and was unlikely to mention the intrusion to the owner of the room. The valet was folding some of the scattered garments on the chair by the bedside as he made his way towards the door. Something about the look of the servant's back made him pause on the threshold. "Benton!"
"Yes, sir."
"Benton, I don't know—" Shelton had acted on impulse, and scarcely knew how to go on. "Benton, I know that we've not got on together. You suspected me of having something to do with my uncle's death. I hadn't. The police themselves are pretty sure of that now... It won't be my fault if I'm not as good a master as my uncle was. You don't believe that nonsense about me now?"
"No, sir," the valet's face was averted. "I'm sorry, sir, if—"
"That's all right. In the meantime, you probably know that you've got yourself in bad with the Chief Constable. If there was anything funny about what you were doing last night that hasn't got to do with the murder, you'd better speak out and tell me. I don't care what it is."
The valet stood erect and faced him. His mouth worked nervously, and for a moment he did not speak.
"There's no sense in getting yourself into a mess for nothing," Shelton insisted. "I know all about that master of yours who was found dead in bed. That's on a par with the evidence against me... No one who knows you thinks you could have killed Sir Arthur—"
"Before God, I'd have died myself sooner, sir!" Benton's sincerity was patent. "I knew nothing about it, sir, no more than—"
"No more than I did. But last night? You lied about that?"
Benton flushed. "Last night, sir," he began and stopped. "I was sure that there was something wrong, sir, when they found him dead," he continued like a man trying to get a fresh start. "His door being locked... I knew he'd been murdered, sir. I thought—it was inexcusable, sir, but—"
"You thought I'd done it?"
"Yes, sir. And last night, I saw you going out across the park... You looked—well, if I may say so, you looked as if you didn't want to be seen. And I thought I'd follow you."
"Then it was you I saw?"
"Yes, sir. I followed you as far as the farm, and waited, but you didn't come out—"
Shelton smiled. "But, in fact, I wasn't there two minutes! I left by the other door... You wouldn't make much of a detective, Benton!"
"No, sir."
"And then?"
"I waited there a long time. Then I gave it up, sir. I was coming home when I saw the police cars go by... I was afraid that someone might have—might have—"
"Might have added me to the bag? And, if you'd been following me, it would have looked queer. Yes. But when you found out that I wasn't the corpse, wouldn't it have been better to speak out then?"
"Perhaps it would, sir... But when a man's in service, sir—Well, this kind of thing doesn't do you any good even at the best. I've been through it before, you see. And if it were known that I'd been spying on you—"
"I see." After all, Shelton reflected, the valet's story was quite probable; on the other hand, there was the admission that he had been near the murdered man's cottage and unable to account for his time during the vital period. "And later? When the bookcase fell?"
"I told the truth, sir. I was in the passage leading to the servants' hall, trying to make up my mind to go in."
"And no one went down the passage? No one passed the end of it?"
"No one, sir. I turned round as soon as the crash came, wondering whether I should go back or not."
"Then no one went upstairs"—Shelton commented half to himself. "And that lets out—"
He broke off suddenly. Although he might be able to make up some excuse, he had no desire to be discovered raiding a guest's room, and someone was certainly coming along the passage. But he heard the measured footfalls pass the door, and a moment later a discreet knock came from the door of his own bedroom. He crossed to the door and looked out, a little guiltily. It was Slater.
Whatever the butler thought he betrayed no surprise at the unexpected quarter from which his master appeared.
"There is a young lady below, who wishes to speak to you, sir," he announced. "A Miss Mansfield, sir."
"Miss Mansfield? I'll be right down... All right, Benton. You needn't worry.... Where is Miss Mansfield?"
"In the small drawing-room, sir... She said that she wished to see you particularly."
Shelton noticed a suppressed gleam of curiosity in the butler's expression, but he had no intention of gratifying it. A sudden thought struck him.
"You know Miss Mansfield?"
"Yes, sir. She was here for some time, when Sir Arthur was writing his book, sir."
"And since? Has she called at all? Before my uncle's death?"
"Once, sir. About a week before, I believe."
Shelton longed to pursue his questions but he was conscious that he had already overstepped the bounds of propriety in questioning a servant. All the same, his heart was lighter even for so small amount of confirmation for the story which she had told him. In spite of himself, his doubts insisted on recurring. As he hurried down the stairs, he was wondering what the visit meant, and it was with a new hope that he entered the drawing-room.
She rose to meet him eagerly, and tried to smile; but her effort was only pathetic. There were dark circles under her eyes and she had evidently spent a sleepless night.
"I—I had to come," she broke out and glanced at the door. Shelton looked out along the passage before closing it. "I can't bear it. I'm being watched... They suspect me. I was followed here."
Shelton laughed with an assumption of confidence. "That's Cheddington," he explained. "He's an idea that even last night's affair might not be the end—that the murderer might think that Gunby had told you or me something. That's all. It's for your protection, really. I've no doubt that I'd be similarly shadowed if I stirred outside. Cheddington isn't taking any more chances. I heard last night he'd posted a man at the farm—and I must say that I was glad he did."
"You mean that?" Her face brightened. "Then they don't suspect me, any more?"
Shelton was silent. In view of Cheddington's warning of the night before, he could not give the answer which she wished. All at once another thought came to him.
"Last night? You didn't come here last night? In the library?
"Here? I was at the farm." She looked at him in honest bewilderment. "Here—what happened?"
Shelton told her briefly. His own suspicions were re-aroused in spite of himself. She might easily have slipped out without Cheddington's watcher having seen her. What the valet had just told him, if it were true, seemed to rule out either of the other two suspects. They could not have got back up the stairs without his having seen. That left only Arnley or—
Evidently she was conscious of his suspicion. The colour blazed in her cheeks, and she interrupted his recital indignantly.
"You thought I was there? You didn't believe me—"
"I do believe you. I'm trying to believe you!" Shelton said desperately. "Only you must see—can't you explain? The police are bound to suspect. They'll question you again—and this time it won't be so easy. I've an idea they know a lot already. If you'd only tell the whole truth—"
She hesitated and then blushed crimson. "I—I couldn't. Not now. You'd think—"
"It's something you're ashamed of," Shelton said bluntly as she faltered and broke off. "That's the only reason you can have for not speaking—if you're innocent."
"Perhaps it is," she answered dully; then looked up with a flash of spirit. "But that needn't be criminal, Sir Peter! Have you ever played the fool? Is there nothing that you couldn't bear to have made public, even if not telling it meant you were suspected—"
"Of murder?" Shelton frowned. "No. I've been a fool lots of times—"
"That's a concession!" She smiled again. "Perhaps you're too much of a realist to care. But can't you understand one might have—well, a special reason—"
Shelton frowned uncomfortably as she coloured again. There was a moment's silence.
"I see." Sheila Mansfield's voice was perfectly controlled. "You don't believe me. You won't be content, unless everything is dragged out. I don't care! I won't—I won't—"
Her composure suddenly vanished. She was plainly on the verge of tears, but she faced him steadfastly.
"Sheila!" Shelton burst out. "I didn't mean that... Look here, I think it would be better if you spoke—whatever it is. After all, if it's nothing to do with the case, the police wouldn't mention it. You don't have to tell me—though I don't care what it is. Sheila, I—"
The opening of the door interrupted what might have been an indiscretion in the circumstances. Shelton turned with a scowl to see Faringdon framed in the doorway.
"I beg your pardon," the explorer apologised. "I had no idea that there was anyone here and, since the library is closed to us—" He smiled. "Good morning, Miss Mansfield. Perhaps you have forgotten me—"
"Of course not. Mr.—Mr. Faringdon, isn't it? I remember I met you when I was helping Sir Arthur—"
"No doubt it is his death which brings you here?" Faringdon suggested as she hesitated. "Perhaps you can even help to solve the mystery? It is a terrible affair. As you know, we are all more or less suspect."
Neither Shelton not the girl found any immediate answer. Shelton himself was thinking of the hypodermic needle which at that moment reposed in his breast pocket. And yet Faringdon could not have done it—if Benton was speaking the truth. Faringdon looked from one to the other and smiled.
"But I'm afraid I interrupted you. Perhaps I shall see you again, Miss Mansfield."
The door had closed behind him before either of them found speech. Sheila Mansfield looked at Shelton, and seemed to read something of his thoughts.
"You—you think that he—"
"I don't know." Shelton frowned in his perplexity. "He's been behaving queerly all along; he could have done it; he might have had a motive and this morning—"
His hand went to his breast pocket and he held out the hypodermic needle.
"But I don't see—" Sheila Mansfield looked at it uncomprehendingly. "What's that got to do with it?"
"It might be the weapon—or part of it. I found it in Faringdon's room this morning. I searched the rooms of all three suspects—and that's all I did find... You see, the murderer's motive, I'm inclined to think was probably money. Faringdon fits that. Then he had to have the necessary knowledge and apparatus—What's the matter?"
The girl had suddenly grown pale. "Did Colonel Cheddington say this?"
"Why, it sort of came out when we were talking things over, and some of it I've guessed for myself. What's wrong?"
"Only—it fits me on every point!" She tried to smile. "Opportunity, motive, means and the necessary knowledge—"
"What?"
"You didn't know that I'd been in a hospital? Or that I bought a hypodermic syringe and needles just before Sir Arthur died. I expect the police have ferreted that out. How can they help suspecting me?"
Shelton drew a deep breath and did not answer at once. "That makes it all the more necessary to find the real murderer," he said, with an effort at cheerfulness. "I'll have to see Cheddington. Perhaps if he searched the whole house—I could only run through the rooms to-day. Ten to one the murderer wouldn't keep the stuff in his bedroom. Anyway, I've a fair idea what we're looking for."
"The needle? Yes, but that's so easily hidden."
"Unless I'm mistaken, there'd be two other things needed. A large glass jar or bottle from which the air could be exhausted, and some means of exhausting it. Then, if you attached the needle, it would suck through by itself—"
"Don't!" She shivered. "It's horrible... Then you're going on with the search?"
"Yes. But not here, I think. You see, it's my opinion that the murderer wouldn't risk bringing the bottle back to the house. He'd be only too glad to get rid of it. Well, if he used that method at Gunby's last night, the jar at any rate must be there. I was going to ask Wilkins to let me have a look."
"Let's go!" She jumped to her feet with an affection of enthusiasm, which was plainly forced. "You know—I didn't think, when we spoke of being detectives, that it was so horrible—"
"It isn't, really," Shelton's medical mind answered her unspoken criticism of the murderer's method. "It's a bit cold-blooded—that's why it shocks you. But it's really a very humane method—much better than shooting or most poisons—"
"Don't talk about it... If Wilkins lets you, where will you look?"
"Haven't the faintest idea. Only it's probably some fairly easy place, and between the cottage and the road. You see, he daren't carry that—"
He broke off at the sight of the expression on her face, and opened the door.
"It won't take ten minutes in the car," he said, changing the subject hastily. "And if Wilkins agrees—"
Both of them were silent as the powerful car snaked its way along the lanes fringing the park. They had almost made the half-circle when the girl at last spoke.
"It's a beautiful place," she said softly. "I loved it when— It's impossible to think that such things should happen here."
"You do like it? You know, I was only thinking yesterday that it was just the kind of place where I should like to live. I don't care a darn about medicine, really—not general practice stuff, anyhow. I believe I could settle down here quite happily—"
"And marry, and raise a large family of children all in the best huntin', fishin' and shootin' tradition! And become an M.F.H. and perhaps stand for the division in the Conservative interest?"
Shelton coloured. "Well, why not?" he asked. "I know people laugh at that kind of thing nowadays—but I'm not sure I shouldn't be as well doing that as a doctor. You see, doctoring, you're always aware that the treatment you should give simply isn't available to many patients—rest, fresh air, and so on. Whereas here—"
"You'd be the local representative of providence, and devote yourself to good works—whether people liked it or not?"
Shelton did not answer. He felt distinctly mortified, and the thought crossed his mind that it was a particularly aggravating stroke on the part of fate that the first girl he had ever felt seriously about should evidently regard him principally as a joke, and should possess the power of irritating him to such a large extent. He let his eyes wander over the sweep of the park, even to the peril of his steering before he spoke again.
"Then you don't like the place?" he asked. "You wouldn't live here?"
"But I do!" the girl answered quickly. "I think that it's beautiful—"
"Only you wouldn't like the company!" Shelton snapped viciously, and wrenched the wheel over just in time to get into the lane leading to Gunby's cottage. The jerk prevented any denial that Sheila Mansfield might have made and he continued, less bitterly. "Well, we're here. We'll see what Wilkins has to say."
But the Superintendent, when the car ended its dangerous course at the cottage gate, seemed to have very little to say. He listened to Shelton politely, with occasional curious glances at the girl.
"The point is, have you found the weapon? Have you searched?" Shelton repeated as he finished.
Wilkins sighed. "We'd do better in finding the weapon if we knew what we had to look for," he said heavily. "There aren't any more bats—if you think they did it. Personally, I'd stake my life those were just bats—"
"That's just it!" Shelton interrupted. "I do think I know what I'm looking for."
"And that is?" Wilkins regarded him without any undue hope. "I don't mind telling you, Mr. Shelton—I mean, Sir Peter—we've searched the place pretty thoroughly. Maybe if what you say is true, we've found the weapon and don't know it!"
"I'm looking for a bottle, a hollow needle, and a pump," Shelton rejoined crisply. "Or rather, the murderer might have taken the needle away with him—he probably never brought the pump here—"
Wilkins smiled a wintry smile. "So you're looking for a bottle?" he murmured. "Well, you'll find plenty! By all accounts Gunby was a smart poacher—so he must have had his sober times. But from what we've found up to date, I'd say he had his moments of relaxation—when he was off duty, so to speak. You can take your choice. They're whisky and stout, mostly—"
Shelton made a gesture of impatience. "Those are no good. We want a larger one—and not one you could get from a pub. More like a jar—"
"Then there's nothing here to suit you—" Wilkins began, but Shelton interrupted him. He had just seen something.
"What's that?" he demanded.
Wilkins followed his pointing finger without interest.
"Why, I'd say that's a well," he answered reluctantly. "I reckon even Gunby drank water—sometimes. Or maybe he washed—though I doubt it."
"You've been down it?"
"No—and we've not dismantled the thatch, either." The Superintendent made an elaborate attempt at sarcasm. "And we've not double-trenched the garden or pulled down the wallpaper yet."
"Then it's there! I'll bet anything on it!"
Wilkins looked from Shelton to the well without any great enthusiasm.
"Just why?" he asked stolidly.
"You know, when my uncle was murdered, there was the problem of where the blood went?" Shelton said eagerly, and did not see the girl wince. "Well, the answer is—the bathroom! And here—put yourself in the murderer's place. You've got to dispose of something you don't want and daren't be seen carrying. What'd you do with it? Of course, it might be in the woods—"
"It isn't," Wilkins answered positively. "We've been through those—"
"Then, man alive! Isn't the well the obvious place?" Shelton asked hotly. "You see, the water would wash out the traces anyway—and who'd care about a broken bottle—"
"Well, maybe, Sir Peter." Wilkins was more than half convinced, but he assented reluctantly. "Thanks for the idea. You think, then, that there's a big bottle down there? The men are away just now... When they come back—" He eyed the rope pessimistically. "I've no figure for that sort of thing—"
"Let me go down!" Shelton volunteered promptly. He saw the refusal dawning in the Superintendent's eye, and hurried on. "Oh, let's see how deep it is, anyway! You might need a diver."
Reluctantly Wilkins led the way to the stone kerb and removed the cover, peering into the black depths where the gleam of the water was just visible.
"It's all of forty feet. A man on a rope—"
"What we want to know is the depth at the bottom," Shelton interrupted. He unslung the bucket from its hook as he spoke. "Mind out!"
Wilkins obediently stepped to one side as the rope slipped through the young man's fingers. There was a splash. The rope slackened. Shelton pulled at it tentatively.
"Not more than a couple of feet," he announced. "If there's anything there—"
"I don't know—" Wilkins began hesitantly. "When the Colonel comes back—Here! What the devil—"
Shelton had already gripped the rope and had slipped over the edge. The Superintendent's protest was spoken to the top of his head, already six feet below ground level. He looked up and grinned.
"If he'd waited," Wilkins caught Sheila Mansfield's eyes and protested defensively. "I don't think that rope's too good. If he falls—"
He peered down again. White-faced, the girl joined him. But Shelton was already at the bottom. They heard him splash. As their eyes became accustomed to the gloom, they could see him, standing up to the knees and bending down, apparently groping in the inky water. Suddenly he stood erect.
"Coming up!" he shouted. "I've got something—"
He was already shinning up the rope as Wilkins again protested.
"If you wait, I'll get—Oh, Good Lord! If that rope goes—!"
Without mishap, Shelton reached the top. Dripping but triumphant, he held out his prize.
"See here!" He spoke a little breathlessly, gripping the kerb of the well and dragging himself up. "That's it! I'd bet a million—"
Wilkins eyed the find without enthusiasm. It was no more than a bottle neck, of peculiar construction, with a pierced cork through which a piece of glass tube, fitted with a tap, protruded.
"And what the hell's that?" he asked simply, and remembered the girl's presence. "Sorry, miss!"
"It's a Winchester—the neck of one, anyhow—"
"I always thought that was a gun?" Wilkins rejoined. "You said something about a pump—?"
"Yes—a reversed pump. One to pump out—not in. That may be down there. But, hang it all!" Shelton felt all at once annoyed by the lack of enthusiasm which had greeted his find. "Don't you see, this is a chemical bottle—laboratory stuff? It's not the kind of thing Gunby would have... They call them Winchesters... Gunby wouldn't put it there. It must have been the murderer."
Wilkins took the fragment of glass cautiously and scrutinised it.
"There's no blood—" he began.
"No. Because this well taps a spring—an underground stream, rather. It's running water down there. But the glass was too heavy to shift."
The Superintendent looked at the broken bottle neck with a frown, but he was not thinking about it.
"A pump?" he said slowly. "A pump? Somewhere, I seem to remember—" He broke off and looked at Shelton's dripping clothes sardonically. "If I were you, I'd go home and change!"
Without waiting for any rejoinder he turned abruptly towards the cottage.
SHELTON stood staring for a moment after the departing Superintendent; then he glanced down ruefully at his trousers and laughed.
"So that's that!" he said. "Not a great deal of encouragement for the amateur detective... And yet, I've certainly found the weapon, or part of it. You see, it's practically impossible that Gunby, or anyone round here should have any use for a bottle like that. The murderer must have put it there... And my idea of a pump seemed to convey something to Wilkins. What did you think?"
The girl did not answer immediately. "That bottle—" She shuddered a little and hurried on. "What did you call it—a Winchester? What are they used for? I seem to think—"
"Oh, all kinds of chemicals in fair bulk. Acids and so on... Wonder how he got it here? Must have had a bag or something."
"That bottle—" Sheila frowned, like one who is making an effort to remember something which just eludes him. "Somehow, I've an idea—"
"Everyone seems to have—except me!" Shelton laughed. "My discovery seems to mean things to you, and to Wilkins... What exactly bothers you about the bottle?"
"I can't remember! That's the whole trouble. I do know something about a bottle like that—"
"Hullo!" Shelton's exclamation interrupted her. "What's this? It looks as if—"
A uniformed policeman was just dismounting from his motor-cycle combination at the cottage gate. He looked curiously at Shelton and the girl but hurried past them without speaking.
"He seems in the devil of a rush." Shelton frowned after him, watching until the cottage door hid him from sight. "There is something up. Either they've caught the murderer—and I've ruined a good suit for nothing—or it's something important. I wish I knew—"
"You might ask the Superintendent." She smiled at his grimace. "You know, I don't think Wilkins approves of amateur aid—even when it is helpful. So, if he won't tell you, what's the next step?"
"The trouble is that I'm hanged if I know—though I suppose a detective oughtn't to admit that. I've found the bottle. I've found a needle which might have been used—though I'm not sure. And I've searched most of the likely places at the Hall. Unfortunately, I can't search Arnley's place. And, if I did, for that matter, there's nothing used for this murder that he wouldn't have a perfect right to keep in the house—being a doctor."
"Do you really think that Dr. Arnley did it?" There was surprise in her voice. "Of course I don't know him well, but I saw him several times when I was working at the Hall. He seemed a very harmless sort of man."
"But I believe murderers often do. When I was in London, I had digs with a landlady who once had a murderer as lodger. By her accounts, he was the nicest gentlemen she'd ever met!" He laughed. "But, you see, he does fit. All the more since I've found the bottle, it seems pretty certain that whoever did it had some kind of scientific or hospital training. And I can't help thinking that the motive must have been financial. Then, he hasn't an alibi for either occasion. And the more I think of it, the less likely it seems that either Faringdon or Turton could have got out and then got back to the house in time to have killed Gunby. It's simply got to be some outside person, who knew the house well—" He broke off at the sight of the girl's face. "What's the matter?"
"Only at the moment you seem to be trying to hang me! Everything you say applies—" She tried to smile; then her face grew thoughtful. "But, somehow, I don't know," she went on after a pause. "I can't think that Dr. Arnley's the kind of man to commit murder. Now, the others—"
"You think Faringdon and Turton are? Well, I wouldn't put it past either of them, if they had sufficient reason. But, what was their reason? And had they—"
He broke off abruptly. The door of the cottage had opened and Superintendent Wilkins, accompanied by the constable who had ridden up on the motorcycle, was coming down the path towards them. In his hand he was carrying delicately an irregularly-shaped package which Shelton guessed must be the bottle neck. For a moment it seemed as though their curiosity was not going to be satisfied. Wilkins had actually walked a pace or two beyond the place where they stood when he turned.
"Come to the station, Sir Peter?" he asked briefly.
For a moment the words startled Shelton. He had a ridiculous idea that the Superintendent was actually arresting him, and something of what he felt probably showed in his face, for Wilkins smiled faintly.
"There's a new development," he explained. "I've got to go right away... And I'd like a few more words with you about this—"
He extended the package. Shelton, on the point of assenting eagerly, looked at the girl. It might have been his fancy that she too had paled at the Superintendent's sudden invitation.
"There's Miss Mansfield—" Shelton suggested. "I brought her here in the car."
"Oh, yes." Wilkins's eyes dwelt for a moment on the girl, but his face was expressionless. "Yes, I'd like a few words with Miss Mansfield as well. If you've no objection, the police car here could take her to the Hall. I'm hoping we shan't be long... You'd be more comfortable waiting there."
Words and tone alike were innocent of any threat or hint of suspicion, but Sheila Mansfield flushed. Then she faced him defiantly.
"Of course," she assented with a meekness which she evidently did not feel. "I am entirely at your disposal, Superintendent—"
"You'd better have lunch with us," Shelton suggested. "The time's getting on—"
He broke off, conscious that Wilkins was looking at him with a curious expression, of which he could make nothing. A wave of mingled fear and anger rushed over him at the thought that the Superintendent might be thinking Sheila Mansfield would lunch in gaol.
"You will?" he repeated.
"I should love to—"
"Excuse me," Wilkins interrupted. "We'd better be moving... We'll see Miss Mansfield in about half an hour or so."
Shelton looked back as he got into the car. The girl was still standing where he had left her, and waved as he turned. They had hardly started before he broke out angrily.
"Look here, Superintendent, if you think Miss Mansfield—"
Wilkins sighed. "I don't think anything," he said stolidly. "It just happens, Sir Peter, you've been a bit of a help to us—both last night and this morning. You may help a bit more yet—if you care. That's why I asked you along. And we've fairly well convinced ourselves that whoever killed your uncle it wasn't you. Miss Mansfield's case is different. She's not answered our questions. She may very well be guilty—or at least an accomplice. That's why my invitation didn't include her."
"But you can't think—"
"It may not be a question of thinking. Langdon-Smythe is coming down by the noon train... Oh, perhaps you don't know what I mean? That letter your uncle wrote was addressed to him. We've been trying to find him ever since."
"But what can he know?"
Wilkins's face showed patient resignation. "That's what we're hoping he'll tell us," he explained kindly. "For my part, I'm just waiting to see—But, all things considered, it's quite possible that that letter had something to do with the first murder. If not, we've only wasted Mr. Langdon-Smythe's time and spoilt his holiday."
There was a brief silence. All at once Shelton remembered his conversation with the valet.
"There's something else," he volunteered. "I meant to have told you before, but you went off."
Wilkins listened without comment while Shelton recounted his conversation with the valet. Even when he had finished the Superintendent was still silent.
"Personally, I think he told the truth," Shelton urged. "It's a natural enough explanation. And if it's true that would let him out."
Wilkins glanced across at him, and smiled. "That's what you make of it?" he asked curiously. "Nothing else strike you?"
Shelton thought for a minute vainly. He shook his head.
"Oh, it doesn't matter—perhaps," Wilkins said innocently. Almost as though he was eager to change the subject he hurried on. "You know, Mr.—Sir Peter, when I was a lad at this game I always used to look forward to some time when I'd have a celebrated murder case to deal with, and have my name in all the newspapers in the country. Now, I've got two. And I'd like to hang that murderer just for the trouble he's given me."
Shelton laughed at what was evidently intended for a joke.
"Then you'll combine business and pleasure," he answered. "That is, if—" He broke off abruptly. "Hullo, where are we going?" he asked. "I thought you said the station—"
The car had, in fact, drawn up in a disreputable street opposite a wooden double gateway, by the side of which four dustbins, filled to overflowing, emphasised the aspect of the place.
"Reporters!" Wilkins said savagely. "This is a back way in—of sorts. They'll have found it by to-morrow, I shouldn't wonder. There's about a dozen or so here. Two or three more drop in every train. And the camera-men are the worst of the lot—"
"But your name's in every newspaper in the country," Shelton laughed. "You're famous, now!"
Wilkins's reply was unprintable. He led the way, through tortuous passages and lumber rooms, until Shelton himself, who had long since lost all sense of direction, sympathised with the "gentlemen of the Press" if they tried to track the diffident Superintendent through his back entrance. Wilkins opened the door of his office with a sigh of relief, and pulled a chair forward.
"Sit down, Sir Peter," he invited, setting the example, and beginning to fill his pipe. "What's his name won't be long now..." He sighed again. "I wish Cheddington was here."
He had brooded on this thought, or on other matters for a minute or two before Shelton, who had got his own pipe alight, ventured to interrupt him.
"You think you know who did it?" he asked. "You're really going ahead?"
Wilkins puffed at his pipe once or twice. "Who'd you back?" he demanded abruptly. "You know nearly as much as I do. Who's your choice?"
Shelton revolved the possibilities in his mind desperately. He was sure that Wilkins, in spite of his gloom, knew at that moment far more than he pretended.
"Arnley," he said slowly at last.
Wilkins grinned. "Colonel Cheddington's answer to that would be that it ignores the big game element—or the bats!" He paused, perhaps expecting Shelton to ask a question, and then continued. "And, after all's said and done, I've a great respect for the Chief's judgment. He's not so daft as he sometimes sounds. And, now, I think he's right—"
"If you know the man, why not arrest him?"
"If I know the man, how do I prove it?" Wilkins countered. "You found that bottle—down a well. We've not discovered yet where it came from. You found a needle in Faringdon's room, you say. But you yourself doubt if that is the needle. The pump—I've an idea where the pump is, or was—"
A uniformed policeman knocked at the door and opened it.
"Mr. Langdon-Smythe—" he began, but the visitor whom he was announcing burst into the room while he spoke. Shelton scarcely knew what he had expected. Certainly not the chubby, boyish-looking little man who actually stood before them. He only glanced at Shelton; and evidently rejected him as a policeman before turning to Wilkins, who nodded to the constable to go.
"This is a real pleasure, Superintendent!" he said effusively. "I'd seen reports of this case in the papers. From the first it interested me. But I'd never even dreamed I might have the pleasure of assisting in it! A splendid case, Superintendent. This will cause a sensation when it's solved."
"It's doing that now," Wilkins rejoined without enthusiasm. "I don't mind telling you, Mr. Langdon-Smythe, I'd be just as glad when we're shut of it... I don't know if they told you why we were looking for you?"
"I heard that it was something to do with a letter from poor Scarsdale. I know no more than that. Why Scarsdale should write—"
Without speaking Wilkins handed over a paper. From the neat typescript Shelton guessed that it was not the original, but a copy. Langdon-Smythe took it eagerly.
"Photographs?" he murmured, after a pause. "Photographs? At the Ridgeley's... Let me see. Why!" His hand went to his pocket. "I believe I can oblige you at once, Superintendent. If it was at the Ridgeley's, I couldn't have been carrying anything else but this."
He took two prints from a leather case and laid them on the table. Wilkins's hand snatched at them; Shelton unashamedly peered over his shoulder. Both looked up equally blankly.
"Yes." Wilkins made a noble effort to seem intelligent. "Yes, I see." He stared again at the pattern of wavy lines on a dark background which seemed to make up the whole of the print, except for an irregular white edging. "Yes," he repeated firmly. "Now, if you could tell us about this—"
"You don't recognise it, young man?" Perhaps Wilkins's pretence had been good enough for Langdon-Smythe, for he picked on the easier victim. "Yet, I imagine, you're a student of crime like myself? You don't know what that is?"
"By compulsion only," Shelton said a little coldly. The man's manner repelled him. "It was my uncle who died."
Langdon-Smythe was not in the least abashed.
"Really!" he answered cheerfully. His little bright eyes peered at Shelton as though he were a specimen. "That is interesting... But you'll wish, perhaps, to have me tell you? This"—he indicated the photograph with a gesture of his hand—"this was my first adventure into the science of ballistics!"
"Oh," Wilkins said bleakly. He looked at the photographs again and, receiving no enlightenment from them, still refused to admit his ignorance. "But why should Scarsdale write to you about them? You see what he says—"
"Let me explain!" Langdon-Smythe fixed his eye on Shelton. "You may be aware, young man—I beg your pardon, Sir Peter—that every gun produces upon the bullet which is fired from it a particular and individual impression? In fact, no two guns are quite alike. Take the brass cartridge case, for example. A firing pin may not be true—it may strike to one side or the other of the centre. The ejector in every case may leave characteristic marks—"
"This photograph's a bullet!" Wilkins actually exclaimed in amazement at the recognition; but Langdon-Smythe interpreted it otherwise.
"Exactly! But, Superintendent, as you are no doubt aware exactly the same holds good of the bullet. The rifling—any minute scratch in the barrel—leaves characteristic marks. This is a particularly clear specimen. As you see, the rifling is badly worn—"
"A bullet!" Shelton exclaimed in his turn, and bent over the photograph. Wilkins chuckled. "Why, good Lord! I was thinking of diagrams of frogs' heart beats and so on!"
"The problem is," Langdon-Smythe, warmed to his subject, went on persistently, "how to obtain adequate impressions from the missile. In the case of a bullet which has been fired into something soft, it is easy. It is merely a matter of rolling the specimen, say, on lead foil, or coating it with some substance which will leave an impression, and again rolling it on some suitable surface. When the bullet is battered, as in this case, the process is more difficult. The interior is bored out carefully, leaving a mere hollow shell. That can be cut, and flattened out—"
Wilkins had not been listening to the lecture. His hand went to a drawer of the desk eagerly, then he withdrew it with a groan.
"If Cheddington were here—!" he murmured to himself. "A bullet! High Heavens above—" He broke off, jumped to his feet. Then he seated himself again and his sadness was unconcealed. "But you've not said, Mr. Langdon-Smythe, what bullet this is? Apart from being your first experiment in ball— in this sort of thing, why should it interest Scarsdale?"
"That bullet," Langdon-Smythe beamed at him, "killed James Charles Illington at Johannesburg twenty-five years ago."
"And you mean to say," Wilkins burst out, "that if you had another bullet fired from that gun—and knew the gun it belonged to—you could positively say the two came from the same gun?"
In his haste Wilkins had erred on the side of incoherency, but Langdon-Smythe gathered his intention.
"Precisely. Show me a bullet fired from this gun, even to-day, and it might well be possible to say 'This is the weapon which killed James Charles Illington—in Johannesburg—twenty-five years ago!'"
Wilkins sat silent for a moment. Then he jumped to his feet, sweeping the photographs towards him.
"You showed these to Scarsdale?" he snapped.
"I did. He was kind enough to take some interest—"
"The murderer?"
"He was never found. It was suspected—only suspected, mind you, Superintendent, that Illington had been killed because he had been fortunate enough—or unfortunate enough, to strike it rich—in the current term—on the goldfields. But the murderer was never found."
Wilkins drew a deep breath. Then he turned to Shelton.
"I've got to put through a 'phone call or two," he said. "I shan't be two minutes. Then I'd like you to drive us to the Hall as though speed limits and road rules had never been heard of! I'll be about five minutes—"
His opening of the door was obviously a dismissal. Shelton led the way out, with Langdon-Smythe unwillingly bringing up the rear.
"An impulsive man, Sir Peter!" he protested, "not at all the English type of detective—"
Shelton grinned at the idea of Wilkins possessing a temperament, but he said nothing as they found two chairs at the end of the passage and sat down to await the official pleasure. Shelton himself was certain that he had no hope of discovering the back entrance unaided.
Langdon-Smythe shot one of his keen little glances at his companion.
"Am I correct," he inquired, "in thinking that I am, if I may put it so, in at the death? I mean, that the information I have been privileged to provide may lead to the arrest and conviction of the murderer?"
"I don't know," Shelton admitted. "I think you've told him why my uncle was murdered."
"Really! That is interesting. It will make another chapter for my memoirs... I should be really obliged, Sir Peter, for any first-hand observations you might have made of the crime."
Shelton did not answer. Temporarily he had forgotten his own detective leanings, and the other's frank enthusiasm for murder and sudden death tended to disgust him. He would probably have been rude to Langdon-Smythe if Superintendent Wilkins had not emerged from his office just in time.
"Let's go—and hurry!" Wilkins said briefly. "One thing, he can't know—"
He left the sentence unfinished, and led the way towards where the car had been left. Shelton saw that the plain-clothes detective named Johnson was already in the back seat. The Superintendent indicated with a jerk of his head that Langdon-Smythe should join him there, and himself climbed into the front seat next to Shelton.
"Now!" he said. "Let her go!"
Shelton obeyed his instructions literally, and even in his haste Wilkins, watching the needle creep round the dial, repented of his rashness. Twice he nipped in the bud abortive efforts at conversation by Langdon-Smythe, who finally seemed to take the hint. After that there was silence, except for the steady purring of the engine.
Normally it would have been a quarter of an hour's run to the Hall. Shelton had reduced it by a third when the car pulled up at the door. Wilkins sighed with relief, but Langdon-Smythe was irrepressible.
"You're an excellent driver, Sir Peter—excellent!" he said effusively. "Really, this is one of the most exciting incidents in my career! The final chase—"
Shelton had paid no attention to him anyway; he ceased even to pretend to do so as the door opened and the uniformed constable who had accompanied Sheila back to the Hall hastened out. There was apprehension in his face. Shelton felt a sudden foreboding of disaster.
"They—they're gone, sir!" the constable stammered. "I acted on your instructions as soon as you rang through. Then I found they weren't in the house. Only the servants and—"
"Who're gone?" Wilkins gripped the man's arm. "Speak sense!"
"Miss Sheila and Mr. Turton, sir." The constable winced under Wilkins's grasp and pulled himself together with an effort. "It must have been before you rang. Miss Mansfield had been in the drawing-room, waiting, sir. She'd talked a bit with Mr. Faringdon. We found him lying down upstairs. Said he'd been taken queer again... As soon as I got your call, I tried to collect everyone together. We couldn't find either of them."
The look on the Superintendent's face was calculated to kill. The explanation died on the constable's lips. Wilkins jerked his head towards the door.
"Come in!" he invited grimly. "We'll see what we can do with what's left."
SHEILA MANSFIELD was a prey to mingled emotions as the car deposited them at the entrance to the Hall; and, unreasonably enough, indignation predominated. Her exclusion from the police proceedings in which Shelton was apparently to be allowed to share occupied her mind far more than any fears about her own position. As Slater ushered them in, she turned on the constable sharply.
"Well?" she demanded. "Where have we got to go? I suppose you've got to watch me?"
The constable wilted visibly. His instructions from the Superintendent had left more than was wise, perhaps, to his discretion, and he capitulated.
"Not at all, Miss!" he answered hastily. "I was to bring you here and stop till the Superintendent came. He'll not be half an hour—"
"Slater, where can I wait?" The girl ignored his explanation and turned to the butler. "The library—?"
"Not the library, miss!" Here, at least, the constable felt bound to take a firm line. Too much had happened in that particular room to allow a possible suspect even to wait there for half an hour. "You see, that's closed—for investigations. After what happened last night—"
He broke off, uncertain if the girl was supposed to know that anything had happened. In any case, she ignored him. Slater came to his rescue.
"The little drawing-room, Miss?" he suggested. "I'm glad to see you back, Miss—or would be, if it were anything else which brought you. The poor master—"
In answer to an appealing glance from the constable, he waited as the girl stalked up the corridor.
"Where's our man?" the constable asked hurriedly. "You know—the detective the Colonel left here? I'd like a word with him, if you'd bring him. You mean Sergeant Richards? I'll get him, if you'll wait."
Sheila Mansfield had turned as she reached the door, just in time to see the consultation, and her anger increased. Evidently she was not to be trusted. She was to be watched. Spied upon unobtrusively. It was perhaps just as well for the constable that he had elected to watch the approaches to the drawing-room rather than stay with her. Without any very good grounds, her annoyance suddenly switched to Shelton. If he had wanted, he could have done something. He had been quite content to go off alone and leave her—
The opening of the door interrupted her thoughts. Faringdon entered, starting as he saw her. Then he came forward with a smile.
"We meet again, Miss Mansfield!" he said pleasantly. "Fellow suspects with the hounds of the law on our track... And I think the methods of our representatives here would make anyone nervous. The good Sergeant Richards scarcely lets one breathe without sinister suspicions. And he really thinks we've no idea what he's doing!"
He laughed softly, and even in her irritation Sheila found herself smiling in sympathy. She had never noticed before how attractive he was; and yet in his face she seemed to read almost unbearable mental strain which only his strength of will permitted him to master. All at once he winced as if in pain, and collapsed into a chair. She started forward anxiously; but the next moment he smiled again.
"Excuse me," he apologised. "This—this atmosphere isn't agreeing with me... I came here, you know, to rest! Instead—instead—" His composure deserted him abruptly. "I've been through hell!"
She could only stare at him in fascinated wonder. The violence of the phrase, contrasting so strangely with his ordinary calm speech filled her with a curious sense of expectancy.
"I can't go on apologising every other sentence!" he spoke again in his normal tone. "You must make allowances, Miss Mansfield—"
"You—you're ill," she faltered, hardly knowing what to say. "The fever—"
Faringdon shook his head. "It wasn't the fever," he denied abruptly. He was not looking at her now, but staring past her chair through the window with a curious, absent look. "Or rather, I suppose it began with the fever. I was weak at the time, or else, perhaps, it wouldn't have happened. I don't know."
Sheila felt a slight shiver pass through her as he paused. Somehow she sensed he was on the brink of a confidence at least, perhaps even a confession. And she was alone with him—perhaps with a murderer. For a moment the thought of the constable's supervision became a comfort.
"I nearly went mad," he continued in the same distant voice. "I think, for a time, I was mad. And now, the suspense here, the watching, the horror of it—I can't bear it much longer... Of course, it's my own fault, partly. I behaved suspiciously. I should have told them the whole truth. But I couldn't bring myself to do it... It's a curious fact about mental disturbance that you can't do the one thing which might save you."
He had regained a more normal manner as he spoke and at the end looked up at her with a smile. Her fears vanished. She was conscious only of sympathy. The man sitting opposite her was no murderer. He needed help. She sought desperately for something to say.
"I suppose we're in the same position," she admitted ruefully. "There's something I didn't want known—something I felt I couldn't bear to tell especially now... Of course the police suspect. It's horrible, isn't it?"
He nodded agreement. "They say confession's good for the soul," he said after a momentary hesitation. "I wonder if you could bear to listen to one. I've a feeling that I could talk—to you. Cheddington or Wilkins aren't exactly an ideal audience. It would help me to get it off my mind."
Sheila only looked her assent, but Faringdon was now fairly launched. He needed no further encouragement.
"It was last trip," he said a little jerkily, as though the words were an effort. "For the only time in my life I fell in love. I was married in a fortnight. A month after she was dead. She died—she died—" He broke off and passed a hand over his eyes. "No one knew this," he continued after a pause. "Not even Scarsdale, or my family... She was a half-caste Indian. That made no difference to me. I wasn't ashamed of it, but, as things worked out, it seemed as if the best thing was to say nothing. It would only have pained them. And I couldn't bear to talk of it."
Understanding suddenly flashed upon her mind. She half rose in her chair.
"She died—she died—like—"
"That was why I fainted. Something about poor Scarsdale's body reminded me. I don't know what it was... It was madness to let her come with me on that part of the expedition. You don't know that part of the country. It's simply pestilential—murderous. Heat and fever and insects, and the forest all round. But I couldn't leave her either, and she wouldn't be left. We were right in the thick of it when I went down with a bad dose of fever. Most of the camp servants had bolted. She pulled me through it. I should have died but for her... I was just getting over it, but still pretty weak. One morning she didn't get up... I managed to stagger over to where she slept. She was quite dead—"
"Oh!" Sheila gave a cry of horror. "You mean—you mean—vampire bats—"
"There really are vampire bats there." His voice was oddly calmer, and his face seemed to have grown more sane. "They kill animals—and men sometimes. It's curious that the bite doesn't seem to rouse a sleeper. There's not a great deal really known about them..."
His voice trailed away. Sheila cleared her throat, conscious of a mist before her eyes. But Faringdon actually looked better. The silence suddenly seemed insupportable.
"Your—your secret was tragic," she stumbled over the words. "No one could blame you if you didn't want—"
Faringdon looked up. "And yours? I don't want to press you. Only if you'd like."
"Mine? Mine's only comic—idiotic!" She felt the colour flame in her cheeks. "No, I couldn't tell—"
"If it's only idiotic, you'd better tell Cheddington," he advised gravely. "I can give you that advice, because I'm going to take it myself. I feel I can—now. That's thanks to you..." Faringdon rose to his feet, but he stood for a moment or two swaying when he had done so.
"Do you think they will find out?" he asked. "The Superintendent and Cheddington have been very active—but I wonder... Do you know what I think? I believe this vampire bat business was an afterthought—that I started that, by what I said when I came round after my faint. It fitted in, and the murderer used it... But the bats couldn't live in this country."
"There were bats!" Sheila shuddered at the recollection. "At Gunby's cottage, when we found him. Wilkins said they were ordinary English bats—"
"You couldn't mistake them... Now, I suppose Cheddington has probably credited me with importing a few live specimens and training them to bite people. That's nonsense. But I did bring back a dead one—once. That was before—before— It's up there in the attic now, I think, in a case by the specimen bottles—" He passed a hand over his brow. "I think—I think I could sleep," he faltered. "I—I must thank you. You've helped me."
Sheila had sprung to her feet with the intention of taking his arm, but he was already at the door. It had closed behind him before she could move.
She sat down again, abruptly. In spite of all doubts, and in spite of the gaps Faringdon's story had left, she told herself that she believed every word of it. And if it had not been Faringdon, who was the murderer? Evidently one of those who had been present when Scarsdale's body was found, or at least when Faringdon had unintentionally begun the vampire bat story. She went over the possibilities again. The one shred of comfort seemed to be that she herself was not among them. But the story had spread like wildfire. Perhaps someone had spread it deliberately. Before Gunby was murdered, half the district must have been talking about the sinister agency which might have caused the baronet's death. Whoever had planted the bats at the cottage had heard the story—but did not know the differences between a vampire bat, and any other kind of bat, or at least thought the possibility of confusion existed. She thought of the specimen in the attic; and with the recollection of Faringdon's words came another memory. Even at the time Shelton had triumphantly produced the broken bottle at the well, she had had the half-formed idea that she had at some time seen a similar bottle at the Hall. Now the realisation came. It was certainly in the attic, among the stocks of preservatives which the miscellaneous stores included. With the thought she was already moving towards the door. She opened it carefully and glanced out.
Perhaps she knew that her most sensible course would have been to summon Sergeant Richards, and tell him the whole story. But her resentment still lingered. She felt a longing to outwit her clumsy captors, and, standing in the doorway, she listened for some sound which might betray their whereabouts. But everything was still. Only a door at the far end of the passage stood open. She guessed that one or both of her guardians must be there, and she smiled as she did so. Richards or the constable had taken precautions against her escape; they had done nothing to prevent her going upstairs. If only she were quiet enough—
Almost with the thought she was creeping down the passage. The foot of the stairs was perilously near to the open door; she even heard the rustle of papers inside, as though the watcher, whoever he might be, was helping out his vigil by means of a newspaper. Probably no one seriously thought of her escape. She gained the stairs and began the ascent.
Once on the upper landing, there was less need for caution. What she had to fear there was rather the accidental appearance of a servant who would be surprised at her presence. She tried to think of some excuse in case the necessity arose, but without success. It was unnecessary. She reached and mounted the second staircase, a little breathless but determined. With a sigh of thankfulness she closed the door of the attic staircase behind her.
In the attic itself, everything was in semi-darkness. Only two small skylights at the extreme ends provided such illumination as there was. The cases and trophies loomed dimly, hardly more than vague outlines except immediately beneath the dusty glass. She shrank back a little at the stairhead. Somehow the place looked threatening. Her hand was on the switch of the electric lights which would dissipate the gloom when she stopped. Her visit was a secret one; to be discovered there, and to have discovered nothing, could only make her case worse than ever. With a quick access of resolution she dropped her hand. Part of her voluntary work for Scarsdale had been the classification of much of the varied material which he had accumulated. She believed that she knew the whereabouts of what she was looking for. With a kind of false confidence she advanced down the twisting alley-way left between the piles.
Things seemed to have been changed; or else her memory was imperfect. She blundered twice, once striking her shin painfully on something sharp. Her third effort was successful. Groping in the shadows, her hand touched the glass of the bottles which she sought. In the very act she jumped erect. Something had moved, near her. She stood in the half-darkness motionless, hearing nothing but the pulsing of the blood in her ears. The slightest sound came from behind her. Shivering, she nerved herself to turn. In the same instant a hand closed upon her neck.
She could give only the slightest shriek, muffled instantly by the hand which covered her mouth. In the grasp of her captor she was like a child. Struggling desperately, she felt the world was turning red, and consciousness left her.
Actually, it could only have been for a few minutes that her senses left her. As she tried to rouse herself, the incomprehensibility of what had happened was succeeded in her mind by a queer feeling of surprise that she still lived. As she tried to rise she discovered her hands and feet were bound.
"Better, Miss Mansfield?" It was a curious, husky whisper that came out of the shadows beside her. As her head jerked round, she could just make out the outline of a man's figure. A strange, terrible chuckle followed the words. "That's what they call the death grip! Another minute or two—!"
Her captor still spoke in the same strange whisper. Even as she divined the fact that it was intended as a disguise her mind pierced it. She cried out without thinking of what effect her words might have.
"You! You're the—the murderer!"
"Ah!" There was something almost regretful in the word. "That alters things... I'm a humane man, Miss Mansfield! I don't want to kill anyone needlessly. You know something, or you wouldn't be here. What is it? And who else knows?"
She could not answer. At the threat his words held her lips had gone dry.
"You're going to tell me—and quickly. Otherwise—"
Only the clinking of glass against glass pointed the threat, but it forced a cry from her lips.
"No! No! Not that—"
"You know something. Presumably the police don't. They'd hardly have sent you... We're wasting time. Quick!"
Mere horror at the alternatives would have denied her utterance. If she kept silence, there was certain torture. If she revealed the truth, that she had come to the attic of her own accord and without the knowledge of anyone she realised it would mean her death. She could only lie there, with her mind a helpless turmoil of fears. All at once the door at the foot of the stairs shook violently. The murderer beside her jumped to his feet.
"God!" he said and nothing more.
As she saw his quick movement, she thought that her end had come. Something was flung over her, covering her stiflingly. Helpless as she was in her bonds, she struggled with it and flinging it off sat up. There was a battering on the door now. Of her captor there was no sign. Then, with a final crash the wood gave. Feet were running on the stairs, and even as the lights blazed up she heard Shelton's voice.
"Sheila! Sheila!"
In her extremity of relief everything seemed to swim around her. Then Shelton was kneeling at her side, cutting the cords, his arm supporting her.
"Sheila! You—you're safe?"
"Peter—"
As Shelton's clasp tightened, Cheddington's grasp on his shoulder jerked him away.
"Miss Mansfield!" The Chief Constable snapped the words. "Where is he? How—"
"I don't know," Sheila Mansfield shuddered. "He was here when you burst in. He threw something on me—"
"Then he's here yet! He's hiding—! No, by Heaven! The roof!"
With Wilkins at his heels, he was stumbling through the lumber towards the open skylight at the far end of the loft. At the foot he hesitated only for a moment. Two boxes placed on end made the ascent easy, but it needed a brave man to raise himself through the hole with the certainty that a desperate man was waiting just above. With a sudden spring he caught the woodwork and pulled himself up. Then he saw his quarry and shouted.
"Turton! Turton! The game's up—"
The murderer was standing on the very edge of the leaded space, just beside the low parapet. At his feet was a coil of rope which he had evidently been in the act of attaching to a chimney-stack. As Cheddington shouted, he gave one glance at it; then his hand went to his pocket. Instinctively Cheddington dodged.
"Drop that! Drop it or I'll fire!"
Wilkins had joined in the chase. The automatic in his hands showed that the threat was no idle one. But Turton paid no attention. He raised his hand slowly with a smile. It held nothing more lethal than a pipe. He spoke after a brief pause, quite calmly.
"This is the end, I suppose... I think you'll find the girl all right—I'm a humane man, Cheddington. No unnecessary killing. I'd like to have known how you found out. Oh, well! It's no odds!"
Unhurriedly he raised the pipe to his mouth. Wilkins saw his intention too late.
"Stop! Stop him—"
He ran forward as he shouted. Pipe in mouth, Turton half began a smile; then a spasm passed over his face. He swayed. Before Wilkins could catch him he collapsed backwards. It seemed an interminable time before the dull thud came to them from the ground beneath.
Cheddington joined the Superintendent. Together they stood looking down at the tumbled heap on the stonework of the terrace.
"God! It's queer," Cheddington spoke in a dazed, absent voice. "A humane man! And he could have killed her—or me—"
Wilkins made an impatient movement. "We'll get down," he urged. "Humane, eh? Well, he's had a longer drop than I'd have given him. And a quicker ending—"
Cheddington did not speak as he followed the Superintendent through the skylight. As they moved towards the stairs, Wilkins halted with a groan.
"Good Lord!"
The Chief Constable looked over his shoulder. Sheila Mansfield still sat where they had left her, but now Shelton's arms were evidently about her for other reasons than mere support. Their faces were pressed close together. Abruptly Cheddington's spirits returned. He laughed.
"Medical attention!" he murmured and hurried towards the stairs.
SOME hours later Shelton entered the library where Cheddington was scribbling on a pile of papers. He was on the point of drawing back when the Chief Constable beckoned him in.
"It's all right," he invited. "I'm resting... The donkey work's over... How's your young lady?"
"Miss Mansfield is sleeping." Shelton coloured, and there was a trace of stiffness in his manner. "I gave her a mild sedative—"
"With your known views on unnecessary drugs?" Cheddington shook his head. "Well, I'm not sure I don't need one myself. I'll have a whisky and soda, anyway, if you've no objection!"
He filled the two glasses and they drank. Cheddington sighed.
"That's better!" His eyes twinkled. "And now, I suppose you're like the elephant's child?"
"Pardon?" Shelton looked at him uncomprehendingly.
"A victim to insatiable curiosity... In other words, you'd probably like to know all about it—what we know, that is. Sit down, shall we?"
Cheddington did not speak for a moment or two after Shelton had obeyed. Then he sighed heavily.
"It's a muddled business," he confessed, "and I'm not sure that we've exactly covered ourselves with glory. Actually, right up to the end I was chasing poor old Arnley, who was blameless in all things except in being hard up—"
"And giving the luminal," Shelton interposed.
"Yes." Cheddington's eyebrows rose a little, but he made no further comment. "Wilkins was a bit closer. But I'm inclined to think he was really backing Faringdon almost as much as Turton... But we're not entirely to blame. Who could have guessed the enormous coincidence that provided the motive—that Turton should present to Scarsdale the clue to a murder he'd committed quarter of a century ago, or that Scarsdale, after he'd had it in the house for years, should suddenly meet the one man who could produce the link which connected Turton with the dead man? Turton had reason to grumble at his incredibly bad luck, even before the murder started. And afterwards... Then there was all that messing about by the doctors, not knowing the cause of death or the weapon or anything. That made it difficult. When we started, we'd only the flimsiest grounds for believing it was murder at all."
Shelton ventured a protest in defence of his profession. "The circumstances were highly unusual," he urged. "No one could expect a man to be killed that way. There's another thing I don't understand. Arrowby stuck to it that there wasn't a wound on—on my uncle's body."
"I'm coming to that. Well, there was the general absence of alibis—not entirely accidental—Faringdon and his bats, Miss Mansfield and so on all confusing the issue. So there was some excuse for us, the way it happened."
"I'm not quite clear what did happen," Shelton interposed as Cheddington paused.
"I'll begin at the beginning. It's pretty clear, from the evidence of the bullet, that Turton did kill Illington in South Africa. We shall probably never know the details. It's likely that that's how Turton became suddenly affluent. Then his friendship with Scarsdale began. I honestly think he was genuinely fond of your uncle; but he was a cold-blooded devil, and when the occasion arose, he didn't hesitate for a moment. He'd given Scarsdale that antelope's skull some time before, never thinking he'd shot it with the same gun. The immediate causes of the murder were two. Scarsdale met that insufferable little ass who insisted on holding forth about his pet hobby and showing his photographs. Then, somehow, one of the bullets imbedded in the bone must have fallen out, or been taken out. And Scarsdale saw it.
"I think it was then he first wrote the letter to Langdon-Smythe. Before he posted it, he must have thought he'd make a few tactful inquiries, and he must have given the game away. Turton decides that the safest thing to do is to remove him. But Turton has given himself away. I believe it was on the very night you came, after Faringdon had gone to bed. Your uncle was adding the postscript when you came—and everything was ready for his murder."
Shelton drew a deep, painful breath. Cheddington looked at him sympathetically and hurried on.
"One thing we only found out about Turton after he died was that, during his varied career before he got money he'd been a male nurse in a hospital. So he knew all about intravenous injections. How he ever got the idea it's hard to imagine. Quite probably that dates right back to his hospital days, and some idle piece of talk with a doctor. He decided to put it into practice.
"We found the needle. We haven't found yet where he got it, though no doubt we shall. That was all he had to get, and there was nothing very suspicious about that. The ropes were ready to his hand in the attic—part of Faringdon's Andes equipment—"
"Ropes?" Shelton asked.
"He needed them. You see, Wilkins examined the walls to see no one had climbed up. We didn't look to see if anyone had been lowered from the roof. That was what Gunby saw. But, with the attic quite handy, Turton evidently thought it safer than wandering along passages with the risk of meeting someone—in view of what he had to carry. The attic also provided the Winchester; the pump was one Benton lost a few days ago. Your uncle was sound asleep. He'd certainly taken a very large dose of luminal—"
Shelton groaned. "You might say I killed him," he said. "Probably the quarrel brought on his headache—"
"No," Cheddington said quickly. "That he should have the luminal was an essential part of Turton's plan. He must have managed to induce him to take it... I've only one idea how at the moment. That supposes your uncle didn't actually think that Turton killed Illington—that he'd been inquiring about the gun and Turton had said, 'Oh, I got that from a man in so-and-so.' In other words, Scarsdale suspected the gun, but not Turton. And Turton might have said something like 'That's only weak stuff, he's given you half-strength tablets. You'd have to double the dose to do much good.' That's bound to be conjecture, but if Scarsdale believed in Turton, it wouldn't be hard."
Shelton nodded assent. "Arnley stuck to it that it was a large, but a safe dose, for him," he said.
"Well, he lowered himself, got in through the window locked the door and—did the business. It sounds horrible, but, as Turton said, he was a humane man!" Cheddington smiled a tight-lipped smile. "It was absolutely painless. He cleans up in the bathroom, and is ready to go back. Then there comes the business of the key."
"I never understood that," Shelton said. "He meant it to look like natural death. Why not unlock the door again?"
"Perhaps for one or two reasons. He'd got to get out again through the window—and swarming up a rope isn't so easy. There'd be a minute or two while he was squeezing out and getting out of sight. Supposing someone had come in then! But I think, really, it was a sort of alternative defence. He meant people to think, if they bothered about the key at all, that it had been pushed under, and consequently that the murderer had entered and left by the door. As if a lawyer said: 'Scarsdale wasn't murdered; but if he was, the most likely person was—Peter Shelton who slept next door!'"
"He meant suspicion to fall on me?"
"That was an improvisation. He still hoped Arnley would accept death as natural. You spoilt that right away, by kicking the key to a place where it couldn't possibly have been put from outside the room. You also spoilt the natural death theory. But it didn't matter. There wasn't a shred of evidence against Turton. No discoverable motive—quite the worst opportunity of anyone, apparently no special knowledge. He concentrates suspicion on you for a bit. But he sees later it isn't working too well. So, when it comes to Gunby, he thinks about Faringdon.
"Gunby must have shattered his hopes badly. He couldn't trust a blackmailer, so he had to kill him. That night when you and Miss Mansfield were raising Cain and playing the devil with the evidence, he'd crept out to see Gunby, probably fixing the interview for next night, and paying a bit on account. He decided to kill Gunby in the same way. But this time it was more difficult. I expect Gunby had been pretty firm with him—especially since he had you as an alternative market. Gunby had to be dealt with between about six or seven and nine when you went there. And he couldn't arrange a real alibi. I believe he did the next best thing. He tried to arrange that other people shouldn't have alibis either. It's my belief he drugged Faringdon's coffee, to make sure he should go to bed. What he meant to do about you I don't know. Perhaps he heard you were going out—"
"Great heavens!" Shelton started. "Now I come to think of it, he made me tell him! Got me on the raw, and then started about the estate business. I flared up and said I was going to be out the whole evening, and be damned to him!"
"Anyway, there were two people out of the way—the two that mattered. Because I gather from Slater that if Mr. Turton says he wants to be undisturbed, none of the servants are going to disturb him. The only real risk was a chance police visit or something like that. Officially, he was in the library all evening—and no one could say he wasn't. Arnley and Benton were pieces of luck—or partly. Because he'd done his best to work on the valet's suspicions of you. So, in a way, he helped to bring about Benton's absence."
"Then, Benton's lying about where he was—and seeing Turton through the window—"
"That was more luck. Benton knew Turton was going to be busy all evening—he thought he was clearing himself! But he'd have ruled out Turton, if one could have believed him! You disposed of that this morning, Wilkins tells me—"
"That's what he meant? I was an ass. I only thought of Benton—not that it damaged Turton's alibi."
"He slips out to Gunby's cottage. But this time the risk is far greater. I think he was flustered a bit—"
"Hanged if he showed it."
"No. But I think it shows in the wildness of his imagination. That bat business was nonsense. It was meant to throw suspicion on Faringdon. Actually it did the reverse. Faringdon knew much too much about vampire bats to think an English substitute would pass. And this time he meant to encourage the bat theory. That's why you found the wound in the neck. In your uncle's case, it was well out of sight—"
"But there wasn't a fresh wound," Shelton insisted. "Arrowby—"
"There wasn't a fresh wound," Cheddington emphasised the word. "Or apparently not. But Arrowby did say something about a gnat-bite with a well-formed scab. Shipman made an examination of the scab. It was artificial—one of those sticky things you put on blisters for tennis and so on!"
"And we missed that!"
"Turton was thorough. Almost too thorough. He had three lines of defence. First, that Arnley would be puzzled and give a certificate. That was the most likely. Second, that there would be a post mortem, but everyone would be more puzzled, and end up by saying medicine had its mysteries or something silly. And, finally, if it was thought to be murder, someone else had done it—such as a budding young doctor."
"And all three missed fire. Partly by luck—but it was too complicated anyway. The very method of the murder—"
"Indicates a tortuous mind. But not a stupid mind. Arnley would have given the certificate—but for you. But Arnley might have noticed a poison, and known what it was. Besides, one has to buy a poison. That's always one risk... Actually, he succeeds in killing Gunby. We scare him badly with that revival stuff... You remember while you were talking he had his pipe in his hand? He'd got some sort of poison in it. He wasn't going to hang."
"But he was as cool as—"
"All the same, he was ready to die at any moment. Faringdon was a godsend to him. You've heard of that?"
"Yes. Sheila told me—Miss Mansfield."
"To-day, I think he guessed things were closing in—"
"Wait a bit! That antelope's head stuff—last night? He didn't do that?"
"He did—and got away with it through sheer simplicity. Ours, maybe! Of course, he hadn't reckoned on knocking the bookcase over. I think his intention was to take out the other bullet. For Mrs. Woodney, in some ways an excellent soul, had been talking. Wilkins asked her about bullets and antelopes' heads and so on; Mrs. Woodney, meaning to be helpful, asked Turton. That seems to have made him link things up. And, you see, if once he'd got the second bullet out of the head, there'd have been nothing to connect the first with him. When the bookcase fell, he knew people would come at a run. He darted out—but he couldn't really hope to get anywhere. Only we all forgot there's a little lavatory place just along the passage. He nipped in there. We all ran past him happily, and he'd only got to come out behind us. That was some quick thinking."
"To-day?"
"He was definitely on the run. He must have felt things were closing in. I think he wanted to be quite sure he'd left no traces in the attic—because that museum place is nearest his room. There might have been a spot of blood or something, and I think he also meant to remove the pump. Then Miss Mansfield came in—"
Shelton shuddered. Then he frowned a little. "Your explanation leaves her out," he suggested.
Cheddington eyed him humorously. "Does that matter?" he asked. "I'm not arresting her!"
Shelton coloured, and Cheddington looked at him with amusement.
"Have I to save up for a wedding present?" he asked.
"I—I hardly know. I think so—but the circumstances—well, I oughtn't to have spoken—"
"Awkward not knowing if you're engaged or not... As for her private mystery—" He laughed suddenly. "You'd better inquire from her when you repeat your proposal! She—"
Both men started guiltily. Sheila Mansfield herself was standing on the threshold. The colour had come back to her cheeks, and for the first time since he had seen her the expression of care had gone from her eyes. Her smile was mischievous.
"You were saying?" she asked.
Shelton felt like a schoolboy; but Cheddington rose to the occasion with magnificent aplomb.
"Miss Mansfield," he said gravely. "I was advising Sir Peter on a delicate matter. This afternoon, I believe, he put some question to a lady regarding a matrimonial alliance. Now, as a doctor, he doubts if he, or she, were quite normal mentally—" He abandoned the stately manner abruptly. "Of course, he's over particular. If people were mentally normal, they never would propose. The point is, is he engaged or not?"
Sheila smiled, and stepped over to where Shelton stood.
"He is!" she said firmly.
"That's all right. I needn't chaperone you then—" Cheddington slid towards the door. "I'll leave you to discuss—the other matter!"
The door closed behind him. The girl looked at Shelton provocatively.
"And that is?" she asked.
"Nothing," Shelton denied. "Oh, well Cheddington was telling me all about the business—but he left you out altogether. I just asked him— But it doesn't matter—"
She looked at him with a dubious expression. All at once she laughed with real merriment. Shelton found himself scowling and stopped with an effort.
"Sit down." She led him towards the Chesterfield. She was blushing but the mirth had not left her eyes. "I'll tell you... You may think it terribly silly; even, perhaps— But it doesn't matter, now. Does it?"
"Nothing matters so far as you're concerned," Shelton said vigorously: then he smiled. "But I don't mind saying I'd like to hear. I seem to be the only person who's missing a good joke."
"Really, it is funny, in a way... Though I've not seen the joke always myself..." She stopped for a moment, and then plunged in. "I needed money. Quite a lot of money. My mother was ill, and I asked your uncle for it, as a loan. Like the angel he was, he let me have it straight away. He was signing the cheque when an idea struck him. He explained he was asking you here, and that he wanted to see you married and settled down. It all sounds absurd but—"
"He told me the same."
"Well, he thought you might need a little help. And he told me that he'd like you to marry—someone like me, who'd keep you out of mischief. He said he'd give me a thousand pounds if, when you came, I'd sort of be about the place—just in case you should feel that way!"
Shelton smiled a little. "I recognise the touch," he said. "Poor uncle."
"He was a dear." Sheila was gathering confidence as she proceeded. "I pointed out the objection that, even if you did want to marry me—"
"Yes?"
"I might not feel able to marry you!"
"Oh," Shelton said a little bleakly. She laughed.
"You're thinking 'She's daft to refuse the laird of Cockpen!'" she accused. "But anyway, he persisted. He seemed to have the matter very much to heart. He said that even if we didn't marry, having me around might keep you out of mischief while you were staying here, and that there was no harm in trying. He'd been so kind I couldn't refuse him. But I did refuse the money. I said I'd come anyway. He sent me the money next day, unregistered, in a brown paper parcel!"
She paused a moment. Shelton waited before he ventured to prompt her.
"And then?"
"Then the whole thing seemed absurd and well, I'm not throwing myself at anyone's head!" She bit her lip and hurried on. "I decided to go to him and say I couldn't do it. You know what happened. Well?"
She looked at him a little defiantly.
"But why on earth—?" Shelton demanded in perplexity. "I can't see why you shouldn't have said—"
"First, I was scared. Later, I might have explained when I saw the police were really suspicious, but then—"
"Then—?"
"Then I'd met you. I couldn't bear you to know—" Her eyes were averted. "You know now. What do you think—think—"
Next moment Shelton was demonstrating in a more practical manner than words the answer to her question. His lips were near hers when she laughed softly.
"Morally, I think the estate owes me eight hundred pounds!" she murmured.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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