THE MIDNIGHT MEETING
The numerous people in court who knew Markenmore and its immediate
vicinity, turned with one accord as the Coroner spoke and looked at a
corner of the room wherein, all through the proceedings, a man had
leaned against the oak panelling, carefully watchful, eagerly
listening to all that had been said. He was a thick-set, clean-shaven
man, save for a pair of close-cropped whiskers that ornamented the
upper part of his fresh-coloured cheeks, a man of a horsy appearance,
who ever since the Coroner took his seat, had persistently chewed at
a bit of straw that protruded from the corner of his firm-set lips.
This horsy appearance was accentuated by his garments—a suit of
whipcord cloth, of the pepper-and-salt variety, smart box-cloth
gaiters, and a white hunting stock, fastened by a large, good
horseshoe pin. He looked like a head groom, but the folk in court
knew him well enough for Grimsdale, landlord of the Sceptre Inn.
The Coroner had reason for saying that he had no idea of the evidence
which Grimsdale had volunteered to give. The truth was that nobody in
that room had any idea. And of all the people there who regarded the
landlord with curiosity the police regarded him with most—for a good
reason. In the course of the enquiries which they had made in the
village and the neighbourhood Blick and his satellites had visited
the Sceptre, and had interviewed Grimsdale as to whether he knew
anything. Grimsdale, in his shrewd, knowing, reserved fashion had
told Blick that he did know something—maybe a good deal—and would
tell what he knew . . . at the right time and in the proper place.
Blick had exerted all his powers of persuasion in an effort to find
out what Grimsdale knew, and had failed, utterly; Grimsdale, always
hinting that he knew a lot, had steadfastly refused to say one word
until the inquest on Guy Markenmore came off; he would only speak
before the Coroner and the jury. Blick, defeated, had set the Chief
Constable on to Grimsdale then; the Chief Constable had met with no
better luck. Not one word, said Grimsdale, would he say until he got
into the witness-box; then, he added, with a knowing wink, they’d be
more than a bit surprised, on hearing his evidence. And now here he
was, at last, before them, and every police official in the room,
from the Chief Constable downwards, was all agog to learn what he had
to tell.
Grimsdale in the box, thought more than one keen-eyed observer,
looked like a man that knows the importance of his own testimony.
There was an expression in his eye, and about his lips, which seemed
to indicate that all that had already taken place was nothing—what
really was of importance was his story. He was the coolest hand,
thought the barrister, that he had ever set eyes on; the sort of
witness whom nothing whatever will move: whose testimony, once given,
nothing will shake. His entire appearance and calm attitude made the
whole roomful of people more attentive than to any previous witness;
there was that about him which made everybody feel that at last
something vitally important was going to be heard.
The Coroner took this witness in hand, eliciting from him a few
formal facts. Charles Grimsdale, formerly groom in the service of Sir
James Marchant; now landlord and licensee of the Sceptre Inn,
Markenmore. Had lived in the neighbourhood of Markenmore all his
life—born in the village. Knew every member of Sir Anthony
Markenmore’s family. Knew the late Mr. Guy Markenmore particularly
well from the time he was a mere child until he left home seven years
ago.
“Have you ever seen Mr. Guy Markenmore since he left home,
Grimsdale?” asked the Coroner. He was somewhat at a loss as to what
questions to put to the witness, and thought it best to get to useful
facts. “I mean—recently?”
“Yes, sir.”
“When, then?”
“Last Monday night.”
“Where did you see him?”
“At my house—the Sceptre.”
“Mr. Guy Markenmore came to your house, the Sceptre Inn, on Monday
night?”
“Mr. Guy, sir, was at my house, the Sceptre Inn, from five minutes to
twelve on Monday night until a quarter-past three on Tuesday morning.”
“He came there?”
“He came there, sir, at the time I’ve mentioned.”
“Did he come alone?”
“He came alone, sir. But he wasn’t alone for the rest of the time.”
“Who was with him?”
“From twelve o’clock until two, sir, one gentleman. From two o’clock
until three, two gentlemen.”
“He saw two gentlemen at your house? Who were they?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“You don’t know? But—I suppose you saw them?”
“I saw one of them, sir. I didn’t see the other. At least, I only saw
his back—some little distance off, too.”
The Coroner looked at the jury and from them to the legal
practitioners. From them he turned to the witness-box.
“I think, Grimsdale, you’d better tell us what you know—about
whatever it was that happened at your house on Monday night and
Tuesday morning—in your own way. Just give us a plain,
straightforward account of things.”
“Yes, sir. About nine o’clock on Monday night, I was standing in the
hall of my house. A gentleman suddenly came in by the front door. He
was a tall, well-made, fine-looking man; I should say about fifty
years of age. Slightly grey of hair and moustache; fresh-coloured; an
active sort of gentleman. Very well dressed in a grey tweed suit; one
of those big slouch hats that gentlemen wear nowadays: grey, with a
black band; no overcoat, carried a gold-mounted cane. He asked me if
I was the landlord; I said I was, at his service, and showed him into
a private parlour that I keep for better-class sort of customers. He
then said that he wanted to book a room for the night, as he had
business in the village. I told him I could give him a very good
room, and offered to show it. He said that would be all right: he was
sure it would be comfortable, and added that the Sceptre had been
highly recommended to him. He then told me that he expected a
gentleman to call on him, late that evening, on business, and asked
me if I could prepare supper for two in a private room—a cold
supper, he said, would do. I said I could give them a cold chicken
and a fine tongue, some tart, and a prime old Stilton cheese, and
they could have that room—there was a good fire in it, then, and I
would have it made up. He then asked if eleven o’clock would suit me
for the supper? I said any time he liked would suit me. We fixed on
eleven. He then told me to put a bottle of my very best Scotch whisky
and some bottles of soda-water on the side-board, and that I could
lay the supper whenever I pleased, for, after he’d had a drink, he
was going out for an hour or so, to see some one. I got him a Scotch
whisky and soda. While he was drinking it he pulled out a five-pound
note, gave it to me, said that he’d probably be in a hurry in the
morning, so would I settle his bill that night and give him the
change at breakfast, which he wanted at seven-thirty sharp. He then
went out. I made up the fire, saw that all was comfortable and ready,
and about half-past ten, after I’d closed the house for the night, I
laid the supper myself, as my wife wasn’t well and had gone to bed
early in the evening. At five minutes to eleven he came back.”
“Alone?” asked the Coroner.
“Yes, sir, alone. He remained alone, in that parlour, until an hour
later. Then, at five minutes to twelve, I heard a knock at the door.
I went and opened it, and found Mr. Guy Markenmore there.”
“You knew who he was?—you recognized him?”
“Oh yes, sir—I knew Mr. Guy well enough in the old days. He hadn’t
altered much.”
“Had you any conversation with him?”
“Just a bit, sir. He said, ‘Hullo, Grimsdale, how are you? I heard
you’d blossomed into a full-blown landlord,’—that sort of thing,
sir—he was always a gentleman for his joke.”
“Did he seem in good spirits?”
“The best, sir! He stood in the hall, laughing and talking a bit
about old times, when I used to see him in the hunting field. Then he
said, sudden-like, ‘I believe you’ve got a gentleman here who’s
expecting me?’ I said we had, and took him straight to the parlour
where the strange gentleman was waiting. I showed him in and closed
the door on them.”
“Did you hear any greeting exchanged between them, Grimsdale?”
“Well, sir, I just heard the strange gentleman say, ‘Hello,
Markenmore!’ and I heard Sir Guy say, ‘Hello, old chap, sorry to be
so late.’ That was all, sir.”
“You didn’t hear Mr. Guy mention the other man’s name?”
“No, sir.”
“Neither then nor at any other time?”
“I never had any further chance, sir. I never went into the room
again. The supper was all ready for them. I’d taken in the bottle of
whisky and the soda-water which the gentleman had ordered, and the
fire was made up. The gentleman had told me, when he came in the
second time, that he and the friend he was expecting would very
likely sit up very late, as they’d a lot of business to talk over,
and he said that if I wanted to go to bed he’d let his friend out,
and see that the front door was fast and the parlour lights turned
out.”
“Did you go to bed?”
“No, sir, I did not. I sit up late myself, as a rule, and I thought
that what he meant by late would perhaps be half-past one, or so. I’d
my own supper to get, too, and after I’d had it I sat up smoking in
the bar.”
“Did you hear anything of the two men in the parlour?”
“Well, sir, I once or twice crossed the hall, and I could hear them
talking.”
“Just ordinary tones, I suppose? What I mean is you didn’t hear any
sounds of quarrelling—high voices, or anything of that sort?”
“Oh no, sir! Just ordinary tones.”
“Very well. Now then, you said just now that there was one man with
Guy Markenmore until two o’clock, and after that there were two men
with him until three. What exactly do you mean by that?”
“Well, sir, this. I told you that my wife was poorly that night and
had gone to bed early. About two o’clock in the morning I went
upstairs to see how she was getting on. She was sleeping all right,
so I went down again. As I passed the parlour door, I thought I heard
three voices instead of two. I stopped and listened, and I distinctly
heard three voices. So I knew then that another man had joined the
strange gentleman and Mr. Guy.”
“But—that seems a strange thing, Grimsdale! How could the third man
get into your house without your knowledge? At that hour of the night
I suppose all your doors were fast, eh?”
“They were all fast, sir—locked. But this third man could get in
easy enough. I think you’re familiar with the Sceptre, sir? Well, you
know that we’ve a flower garden and lawn in front of the
house—between the road and the house. Now, the parlour that these
gentlemen were using opened on to the garden and lawn by a French
window. They could admit anybody from outside by that—there’d be no
need to open any door.”
The Coroner looked round at the jury and the lawyers.
“That would look as if some appointment had been made between these
two—Guy Markenmore and the first man—with a third man,” he
remarked. “Grimsdale,” he continued, turning to the witness, “you’re
sure that the strange man who came to your house at nine o’clock on
Monday night didn’t mention that he was expecting two visitors?”
“Positive, sir! He only spoke of one.”
“And you’re equally positive that after two o’clock he had two men
with him?”
“Certain of it, sir. I made out distinctly that there were three men
talking in the parlour, and afterwards I saw them—all three!”
“In the parlour?”
“No, sir—outside.”
“What did you see—exactly?”
“Well, sir, after hearing three voices I went back to my easy chair
in the bar. I thought that Mr. Guy, having come home again, had asked
somebody to slip down to see this friend of his, and that they had
heard him come in at our garden gate—they’d opened the French
window, and brought him into the parlour in that way. Of course, as
the first gentleman had taken a room for the night that was all
right—he could have in whoever he pleased. And as Mr. Guy was there,
I knew things would be satisfactory. So I didn’t bother myself as to
who it was—I thought it might be Mr. Harry—the third man, I mean.
As it got toward three o’clock, I began to doze in my chair in front
of the fire, and I think I fell asleep. I was awakened by hearing the
garden gate clash. I jumped up and looked out of the window. I saw
three men in the road outside. They——”
“Stop a bit, if you please,” interrupted the Coroner. “This is likely
to be a very important point. Now, do you know—precisely—what time
this was, Grimsdale?”
“Yes, sir! I looked at the clock on the mantelpiece—an uncommon good
timekeeper, sir—as I rose from my chair to pull aside the blind and
look out of the window. It was precisely seventeen minutes past
three.”
“That,” observed the Coroner, with a glance at the jury, “is about an
hour and a half before sunrise. Now, Grimsdale, how could you see at
that time of the early morning?”
“Well, sir, it was a clear night, there was a bit of a moon, and
altogether it was a good night for seeing—grey light, you might term
it. I could see our stables on the other side of the road clear
enough, and the trees round about there, and the road. And I saw
those three gentlemen—their figures, I mean—plainly.”
“What were they doing?”
“Walking slowly away from the Sceptre up the road towards
Greycloister and Mitbourne, sir.”
“Could you distinguish them, one from the other?”
“Yes, sir. I knew which was Mr. Guy, and which was the first man who
came to the Sceptre. Mr. Guy was walking in the middle; the gentleman
who came at nine o’clock was on his left-hand side; the third man was
on his right.”
“What sort of man was he?”
“A tall man, sir—a good six foot.”
“Did you recognize his figure as that of anybody belonging to this
neighbourhood?”
For the first time since his appearance in the witness-box, Grimsdale
began to show signs of hesitation. He paused, shaking his head.
“Well, sir, you’ll bear in mind, if you please, that it was not as
light as it might have been,” he answered. “It’s difficult, at that
time of morning.”
“Did you form any idea at the time as to who the man was?” enquired
the Coroner.
“Well, I certainly did have a notion—a sort of thought,” admitted
Grimsdale.
“What was it?”
Grimsdale hesitated again.
“It was only a notion,” he said at last. “Just—just the sort of
thing that comes into one’s mind, like. I’d rather not say!”
“I’m afraid you must say, Grimsdale. You evidently, on seeing him,
had some notion as to the identity of the third man. Now, what was
it?”
“Well, sir, if I must, I must! I wondered—only wondered, mind you,
gentlemen—if it wasn’t Mr. Harborough.”
“You wondered if the third man, the man walking on Guy Markenmore’s
right hand up the road was not Mr. John Harborough. You thought you
recognized his figure?”
“Yes, sir. But it was only because the man was very tall, had just
about Mr. Harborough’s build, and because the three of ’em were going
in the direction of Greycloister, Mr. Harborough’s house, and then
you see, sir, I’d heard that Mr. Harborough was home again,
and—well, maybe I’d got him in mind a bit. I—I shouldn’t like to
let it go out that I say it was Mr. Harborough, because I don’t!”
“You couldn’t swear that the third man was Mr. Harborough?”
“No, sir—certainly I could not!”
“But he was a man of just about Mr. Harborough’s height, build, and
personal appearance?”
“Just that, sir.”
“Well, about the first man—the man who had taken a room at the
Sceptre. What time did he come back there, after this?”
“He never did come back, sir!”
“What!—never came back at all?”
“Never at all, sir! Never set eyes on him since! I’ve got three pound
fourteen shillings change belonging to him, sir—the bill came to one
pound six. But as I say, he never came back. I went into the parlour
after seeing them in the road—the French window was slightly open,
and the two lamps had been turned down. I thought then that I
wouldn’t bother about going to bed—and I set to work clearing away
the supper things and tidying up the parlour. Of course, I expected
the gentleman back any minute—my idea was that he’d just strolled up
the road a bit with the other two. But he never came—never seen nor
heard of him since, sir.”
The Coroner looked down at the officials and the lawyers. His manner
became that of a man who after following various tortuous ways,
suddenly finds himself in a _cul-de-sac_.
“It is very evident that this is going to be a protracted enquiry,”
he remarked. “The police must get on the track of the two men who
were with the deceased at the Sceptre Inn on Monday midnight and
early on Tuesday morning. I think we had better adjourn now.”
“I should like to put one or two questions to the witness,”
interrupted the barrister. “Grimsdale, you said that the man who came
to you at nine o’clock on Monday evening, and booked a room for the
night gave you a five-pound note, out of which you were to pay
yourself. Have you still got that note?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Grimsdale, pulling out an old-fashioned purse.
“Here, sir.”
“That note must be handed over to the police,” said the barrister.
“Now, another question—‘What sort of man was the stranger? Was he an
Englishman?’”
“My impression, sir,” replied Grimsdale, “was that he was one of them
Americans—from his speech, sir. When I was in Sir James Marchant’s
service I saw a lot of American gentlemen: I took this to be one.”
“Very good—now just one more question. When you tidied up your
parlour, did you find anything, any small article that any of these
men might have left? Guests do leave things behind, you know,
sometimes.”
Grimsdale thrust his hand into another pocket and drew something out.
“I did, sir—I meant to mention it. I found this, lying on the supper
table.”
And having first held it aloft, so that every one present could see
it, the landlord laid on the edge of the witness-box a silver-mounted
briar-wood tobacco pipe.