MURDER AT MANOR LODGE
It did not take the motor more than an hour to cover the difference
between Portman Square and Manor Lodge, Grays, and in a very brief time
Cleek in the character of George Headland had the satisfaction of seeing
all the actors in this tragic drama. Narkom's assertion that Colonel
Parradine was "acting queerly" had led him to expect a broken-down,
shifty-eyed half-pay officer, glad to be free from the iron hold of the
dead man. He found instead a collected, typical Anglo-Indian, as keen on
probing the mystery as Cleek himself, and full of suggestions as to
possible clues. It was only when there arose the subject of motor-cars,
which he detested ordinarily, that his calm was broken.
Miss Parradine, however, appeared to be on the verge of hysterics, and
though in normal times she would have been a very handsome girl, now her
eyes were red with weeping, her hair dishevelled, and had she been the
dead man's widow she could not have evinced more grief. All this, in
face of Mr. Narkom's statement that she loved another man, made her
manner over-done, and almost theatrical.
"I suppose, Miss Parradine," said Cleek in a casual, off-hand sort of
way, "you don't happen to know who will inherit Mr. Winton's fortune, or
if he ever made a will? I am aware from what Mr. Narkom has told me that
the collection of jewels will come to you, but that is not the whole
extent of his wealth. There is no one you know who might benefit by his
death?"
"No one who would be likely to injure him," said Miss Parradine. "His
only relative is a distant cousin, Richard Deverill, I believe, a
wealthy man in Buenos Ayres. I know, because Anthony told me when he had
our settlements drawn up that he would leave all the jewels to me, and
in case anything happened to him, Mr. Weston, the solicitor, was to send
over to South America and find out if Deverill was still alive."
Cleek switched round quickly.
"Anything happen?" he inquired. "Did he expect anything to happen then?"
"Well," said Miss Parradine, "I think he was always nervous, especially
about the 'Rose of Fire.' And as that very day I had caught sight of
some Burmese natives, of high caste, it is true, hanging about his
London hotel, the Savoy, where we had all been staying, I got nervous,
too. That is why I came straight to him last night, to ask him to give
the 'Rose' up to me for safety. But he refused, and I was angry about
those horrible brooches. But if only I had known! No, Mr. Headland,
there is no one else I know."
"Well, there's nothing wrong there," said Cleek. "Clearly a case of
local robbery, I should say."
"Yes, that's what Robert said." She flushed as Mr. Headland twitched an
inquiring eyebrow.
"Robert Bristol and I at one time were engaged," she said, huskily.
"This terrible tragedy sets me free. I confess that I regret parting in
anger from Mr. Winton, but he could be very, very cruel. Robert said he
could save me--but oh----" She broke off as if frightened at what she
had said, and Cleek flashed a glance of deepest significance at Mr.
Narkom.
"Robert could save her," could he! How, except by removing the obstacle
which stood in their path of mutual happiness, that with the jewels left
her by one lover she might find happiness with the other? Was this the
explanation?
"Perhaps you would like to see Mr. Bristol," she said, hurriedly. "I
know he is here, because he, too, is worried over it."
"I should indeed," said Cleek, and as she left the room it seemed to him
that Parradine cast an anxious glance after her.
"I cannot understand Bristol," he said, "since my daughter's engagement
to Mr. Winton. He went away until yesterday, the day before the
wedding, then arrived evidently in good time...." his voice trailed away
as the door opened to admit Robert Bristol, a typical gentleman-farmer,
but now his face was pale and lined with anxiety, his whole appearance
as of one who has had little sleep, and as Cleek noticed his carelessly
brushed clothes and shaking hands, his eyes narrowed down. But when the
first formalities were over, he spoke as he always did at such times, in
the heavy, befogged tones of utter incompetence.
"You are just the man I want to see, Mr. Bristol, before I go upstairs.
I'm fairly puzzled, but I'd like to know any other facts you can give
me----"
"I can give you nothing, tell you nothing," declared the young man in
shaking tones. "It has been such a colossal shock to me. I hated the
dead man, Heaven knows, and could not bring myself to return till
after--that is---- But I could not keep away, and when I learned what
had happened...."
"From whom did you hear the news, Mr. Bristol?" asked Cleek, sharply.
"Well, I think it was old Twells," he said. "He's a bit of a character,
kind of naturalist and all that sort of thing," Bristol stammered. "He
said Wills, the butler, had told him on his way to Doctor Smith's, and
as I passed him ... he told me.
"Passed him!" ejaculated Cleek. "Where were you; where had you been
during the evening?"
"Most of the time, at the Electric Power House. I know one of the
engineers there, and I just happened to be there, and so ... so...." His
voice trailed away as though he had given the most lucid of
explanations.
"I see," said Cleek, pinching up his chin, as the thoughts raced through
his mind. What connection had this explanation with the sudden failure
of the electric light at the exact moment of the discovery of the
murder, and how was Miss Parradine connected with it? Were the two in
league, after all? But he said no more, only switched round on his heel
and allowed himself to be led upstairs to the gallery where the dead man
still lay.
It was a large square room, solidly built, without corners or panels.
Along its dull, gray-papered walls hung large pictures of long dead and
gone ancestors of the owner of Manor Lodge, himself a wanderer in
strange lands. Small tables held the cases of curios collected by
Anthony Winton, and but one big window gave it light. Clearly there was
no room for concealment of any unknown assailant, and when Cleek had
dismissed the plain-clothes man on guard, and told Calvert, who had
quickly been sent for at Cleek's request, to open up the blind, he
turned his attention to the dead man.
As Mr. Narkom had said, there was no sign of wound or mark on the body.
"Suffocated, it is clear enough," commented Cleek, having made minute
examination. "But how?" He looked round. "You have no gas fittings
here?"
"None in the house, sir," said Calvert. "The whole place was lit by
oil-lamps till my master took it and then the local company wired it for
electricity. All the rooms are not done yet, but this one and downstairs
were finished first. The company also connected up the house telephone
to theirs, so as to oblige Mr. Winton while waiting for his own
connection with the company. I suppose that was why that went wrong,
too, when the electric light went off."
"What did he have to eat last?" said Cleek, suddenly, almost as if he
had not been listening. "Do you know?"
"Yes, I do," said Calvert. "He dined downstairs at 7 o'clock, as usual,
and the rest of the dinner was finished in the servants' hall and
nothing better could be desired. I came in at 9 o'clock to see whether
he would have anything more, but Mr. Winton said no. And then Miss
Parradine came."
"Yes, I know. And what about her visit?" said Cleek. "How long was she
here, do you remember?"
"Yes, sir. The hall clock was striking a quarter past nine when I let
her in, and at a quarter to ten the telephone bell rang. Miss Parradine
flung herself out of the gallery as I went to answer it, and the master
was alive then. I heard his voice. Whether she went back while I was
answering the 'phone, I don't know...."
"Went back?" said Cleek, excitedly. "What do you mean?"
"Well, sir," said Calvert, "as I said, just as she came out, the bell
rang, and Miss Parradine said she would let herself out, and I turned
and ran to the instrument. When I returned--it was only a message from
the tailor, and nothing important--she was gone. But she might have gone
back to the master, and perhaps it was her dress fluttering that I heard
inside the room. You see, sir, I knocked, and then I heard that kind of
struggling and fluttering and ... I am almost sure, the sound of the
window being shut. Then I forced the door, but the room was pitch dark.
If any one slipped by me then I didn't know it, but when the lights
flashed on again I saw Mr. Winton crouched up against the window, and he
pointed to the skeleton, saying, 'Death's Head!' And that was the end."
The man gave a half-sob and his words rang true. If it were acting, it
was perfect of its kind. Cleek stood silent, his shoulders hunched up.
"Where was your master sitting before that, do you know?"
"When I went in about nine, as I said, he was sitting right under the
light. The window was wide open then. I noticed it particularly, and the
Rose of Fire, was in front of him. Very fond of that jewel he was, and
used to say he'd give his life for it."
"Which he did," muttered Cleek, advancing to the table and standing just
where the dead man had sat a few short hours before. Suddenly he
switched round.
"Mr. Winton was cleaning his jewels then, was he? He preferred Venetian
powder to jeweller's rouge, eh?"
"Cleaning, sir? No, indeed. He never touched them last night, that I'll
swear."
Cleek bent down lower. "Ah, I see my mistake, a little cigarette ash,
nothing of importance. Well, Calvert, I see there is nothing more to be
gained here. Tell Mr. Narkom I am ready for him, will you?"
"Certainly, sir," and Calvert turned as if glad to make his escape.
Had he waited another minute he would have seen Cleek pounce swiftly on
the little feathery yellow dust on the table, gather it up, and transfer
it to his note-book, and when Mr. Narkom had come upstairs, it was to
find his famous ally gazing thoughtfully out of the window, his face
serene, as if there were no such gruesome things as a murdered man and a
withered skeleton behind him.
"Mr. Narkom," he said, when he had followed the Superintendent
downstairs and out into the country road, where the limousine was
waiting, and as he stepped into it, "I want you to wait here for me.
I've got an idea that death takes strange shapes, and Mr. Winton
recognized his foe rightly, though too late. I want to poke about for
myself a little farther afield. Give me a couple of hours, and if I am
right, my friend, the riddle is at an end. What's that? A clue? I want
to find out which sticks the best to metal, glue or soap." With this Mr.
Narkom had to be content, and only Lennard, at the wheel of the car,
heard the direction to drive to South Kensington Museum as hard as he
could go.