THE MURDER NEAR THE FALCON'S NEST
"I call it perfectly dreadful of those men!" Helen Thurwell exclaimed
suddenly. "They're more than an hour late, and I'm desperately hungry!"
"It is rank ingratitude!" Rachel Kynaston sighed. "I positively cannot
sit still and look at that luncheon any longer. Groves, give me a
biscuit."
They were both seated on low folding-chairs out on the open moorland,
only a few yards away from the edge of the rugged line of cliffs against
which, many hundreds of feet below, the sea was breaking with a low
monotonous murmur. Close behind them, on a level stretch of springy
turf, a roughly improvised table, covered with a cloth of dazzling
whiteness, was laden with deep bowls of lobster salad, _pates de foie
gras_, chickens, truffled turkeys, piles of hothouse fruit, and many
other delicacies peculiarly appreciated at _al fresco_ symposia; and, a
little further away still, under the shade of a huge yellow gorse bush,
were several ice-pails, in which were reposing many rows of gold-foiled
bottles. The warm sun was just sufficiently tempered by a mild
heather-scented breeze, and though it flashed gayly upon the glass and
silver, and danced across the bosom of the blue water below, its heat
was more pleasant than oppressive. The two women who sat there looked
delightfully cool. Helen Thurwell especially, in her white holland gown,
with a great bunch of heather stuck in her belt, and a faint healthy
glow in her cheeks, looked as only an English country girl of good birth
can look--the very personification of dainty freshness.
"There go the guns again!" she exclaimed. "Listen to the echoes. They
can't be far away now."
There was a little murmur of satisfaction. Every allowance is to be made
for such a keen sportsman as Mr. Thurwell on the glorious twelfth, but
the time fixed for the rendezvous had been exceeded by more than an
hour.
"I have reached the limit of my endurance!" Rachel Kynaston declared,
getting up from her seat. "I must either lunch or faint! As a matter of
choice, I prefer the former."
"They will be here directly, miss," Groves remarked, as he completed the
finishing touches which he had been putting to the table, and stepped
back a little to view the effect. So far as he was concerned they might
come any time now. For once his subordinates had not failed him. Nothing
had been forgotten; and, on the whole, he felt that he had reason to be
proud of his handiwork.
He glanced away inland again, shading his eyes with his hand.
"They'll be coming round the Black Copse in five minutes," he said, half
to himself. "James, get the other chairs out of the wagon."
Rachel Kynaston was still standing up looking around her. Suddenly her
eyes fell upon a quaintly built cottage, perched upon the edge of the
cliff about a mile away.
"I meant to ask you before, Helen," she exclaimed. "Who lives in that
extraordinary-looking building--Falcon's Nest, I think you call it?"
She moved her parasol in its direction, and looked at it curiously. A
strange-looking abode it certainly was; built of yellow stone, with a
background of stunted fir trees which stretched half way down the cliff
side.
Helen Thurwell looked across at it indifferently.
"I can tell you his name, and that is all," she answered. "He calls
himself Mr. Brown--Mr. Bernard Brown."
"Well, who is he? What does he do?"
Helen shook her head.
"Really, I haven't the least idea," she declared. "I do not even know
what he is like. He has been there for two months, and we haven't seen
him yet. Papa called upon him, but he was out. He has not returned the
call! He--oh, bother Mr. Brown, here they come! I'm so glad!"
They both got up and looked. Rounding the corner of a long plantation,
about half a mile away, were several men in broken line, with their guns
under their arms; and a little way behind came three keepers, carrying
bags.
Rachel Kynaston looked at them fixedly.
"One, two, three, four, five," she counted. "One short. I don't see
Geoffrey."
Helen moved to her side, and shaded her eyes with her hand. On the
fourth finger a half hoop of diamonds, which had not been there three
months ago, was flashing in the sunlight.
"Neither do I," she said. "I wonder where he is."
Her tone was a little indifferent, considering that it was her _fiance_
who was missing. But no one ever looked for much display of feeling from
Helen Thurwell, not even the man who called himself her lover. Indeed,
her unresponsiveness to his advances--a sort of delicate composure which
he was powerless in any way to break through--had been her strongest
attraction to Sir Geoffrey Kynaston, who was quite unused to anything of
the sort.
The men quickened their pace, and emptying their guns into the air, soon
came within hailing distance. On that particular day of the year there
was only one possible greeting, and Helen and her companion contented
themselves with a monosyllable.
"Well?"
Mr. Thurwell was in the front rank, and evidently in the best of
spirits. It was he who answered them.
"Capital sport!" he declared heartily. "Birds a little wild, but strong,
and plenty of them. We've made a big bag for only three guns. Sir
Geoffrey was in capital form. Groves, open a bottle of Heidseck."
"Where is Geoffrey?" asked Rachel--his sister.
Mr. Thurwell looked round and discovered his absence for the first time.
"I really don't know," he answered, a little bewildered; "He was with us
a few minutes ago. What's become of Sir Geoffrey Kynaston, Heggs?" he
asked, turning round to one of the gamekeepers.
"He left us at the top of the Black Copse, sir," the man answered. "He
was coming round by the other side--shot a woodcock there once, sir," he
said.
They glanced across the moor toward Falcon's Nest. There was no one in
sight.
"He's had plenty of time to get round," remarked Lord Lathon, throwing
down his gun. "Perhaps he's resting."
Mr. Thurwell shook his head.
"No; he wouldn't do that," he said. "He was as keen about getting here
as any of us. Hark! what was that?"
A faint sound was borne across the moor on the lazily stirring breeze.
Helen, whose hearing was very keen, started, and the little party
exchanged uneasy glances.
"It must have been a sea-gull," remarked Lord Lathon, who wanted his
luncheon very badly indeed. "We'd better not wait for him. He'll turn up
all right; Geoffrey always does. Come----"
He broke off suddenly in his speech and listened. There was another
sound, and this time there was no mistake about it. It was the low,
prolonged howl of a spaniel--a mournful sound which struck a strange
note in the afternoon stillness. There was breathless silence for a
moment amongst the little group, and the becoming glow died out of
Helen's cheek.
Rachel Kynaston was the first to recover herself.
"Had Sir Geoffrey a dog with him, Heggs?" she asked quickly.
"Yes, miss," the man answered. "His favorite spaniel had got unchained
somehow, and found us on the moor. I saw her at heel when he left us.
She was very quiet, and Sir Geoffrey wouldn't have her sent back."
"Then something has happened to him!" she cried. "That was Fido's howl."
"Has anyone heard his gun?" Mr. Thurwell asked.
There was no one left to answer him. They had all started across the
moor toward the black patch of spinneys around which Sir Geoffrey should
have come. Mr. Thurwell, forgetting his fatigue, hurried after them;
and Helen, after a moment's hesitation, followed too, some distance
behind.
She ran swiftly, but her dress caught often in the prickly gorse, and
she had to pause each time to release herself. Soon she found herself
alone, for the others had all turned the corner of the plantation before
she reached it. There was a strong, sickly sense of coming disaster
swelling in her heart, and her knees were tottering. Still she held on
her way bravely. A few yards before she reached the corner of the
plantation, she almost ran into the arms of Lord Lathon, who was
hurrying back to meet her. There was a ghastly shade in his pale face,
and his voice trembled.
"Miss Thurwell," he exclaimed in an agitated tone, "you must not come!
Let me take you back. Something--has happened! I am going to Rachel.
Come with me."
She drew away from him, and threw off his restraining arm.
"No; I must see for myself. Let me pass, please--at once."
He tried again to prevent her, but she eluded him. A few rapid steps and
she had gained the corner. There they all were in a little group
scarcely a dozen yards away. A mist floated before her eyes, but she
would see; she was determined that she would see this thing for herself.
She struggled on a few steps nearer. There was something lying on the
grass around which they were all gathered; something very much like a
human shape. Ah! she could see more plainly now. It was Sir
Geoffrey--Sir Geoffrey Kynaston. He was lying half on the grass and half
in the dry ditch. His white face was upturned to the cloudless sky; by
his side, and discoloring his brown tweed shooting coat, was a dark wet
stain. In the midst of it something bright was flashing in the sunlight.
She stood still, rooted to the spot with a great horror. Her pulses had
ceased to beat. The warm summer day seemed suddenly to have closed in
around her. There was a singing in her ears, and she found herself
battling hard with a deadly faintness. Yet she found words.
"Has he--shot himself?" she cried. "Is it an accident?"
Her father turned round with a little cry, and hastened to her side.
"Helen!" he gasped. "You should not be here! Come away, child! I sent
Lathon----"
"I will know--what it is. Is it an accident? Is he--dead?"
He shook his head. The healthy sunburnt tan had left his face, and he
was white to the lips.
"He has been murdered!" he faltered. "Foully, brutally murdered!"