and I didn't notice anything out of the common. I don't see how a woman
of her class could have enemies in her household. She was a
self-contained foreigner, mainly interested in saving money, and she
seems to have kept apart from the rest of the domestics. The rest of
the servants are English and appear to be of a humdrum, respectable
type. As far as I can see, her death happened naturally. The woman was
fooling about by the fountain, slipped on the marble and stunned herself
against the sundial. That would account for the bruise on her forehead.
She was unconscious when she fell into the water and consequently was
drowned. The thing is simple."
"That is because you haven't studied the subject," Tanza said placidly.
"I flatter myself that I have an unerring instinct for this class of
thing, and that is why I feel sure that we have dropped upon something
new in the way of crime. You have forgotten that the doctor who made
the _post-mortem_ testified that there was little or no water in the
lungs, which is rather against your drowning theory. Besides, one of
the witnesses said that the woman's clothing was slightly singed. And,
in addition to this, what could the Frenchwoman want in the garden at
that early hour in the morning? Charlock swore that she was in the
house just before daybreak, and soon after it was light he himself found
her lying in the fountain. Depend upon it, she went to keep an
assignation and met her death that way."
"What, in broad daylight?" Grey asked.
"That," Tanza said, with the air of a connoisseur, "is just where I am
puzzled. It must have been nearly broad daylight, at any rate, when the
woman left the house, and the sundial was in full view of the front
windows. We've a precious clever rascal to deal with, I know. I have
gone into all the records of new and ingenious crimes, and in all my
experience I can find nothing to fit this case. That is why I called
you in. The murderer is up-to-date and uses all the modern appliances
which are not as yet known to the police. A good many of them may still
be outside the ken of the average scientist. And the more my mind
dwells upon the matter the more sure I am that science has been invoked
by our miscreant. As you are well versed in all the latest discoveries,
I asked you to spend a few days with me and make an examination of the
scene of the trouble."
"Shouldn't we be rather intruding?" Grey protested. "Charlock is a very
queer sort of man."
"I know that. In writing to him for his permission to test certain of
my theories I mentioned that I was a friend of yours and that I should
bring you along. I received a characteristic reply to the effect that I
had best mind my own business, but that so long as you answered for my
_bona fides_ no objection would be made. So we are going off this
afternoon, and here is the boat coming to fetch us. I don't expect a
very warm reception."
John Charlock was walking about the grounds when his visitors arrived.
Despite his sternness he looked miserable. For the time being he could
not work. He felt that he would be able to do little or nothing until
he had disposed of his expensive household. He had another plan, too,
in his mind, but for the moment it was not ripe for execution. He
extended a more or less cordial welcome to Grey, but his manner to Tanza
was chilly. If the latter noticed it, he did not disclose the fact.
"This is very good of you, my dear sir," he said. "I hope you will not
think I am here out of mere curiosity, for I am quite convinced that the
death of your wife's maid was no ordinary occurrence. Having devoted
most of my life to the study of crime, my experience tells me----"
"I have heard of you, of course," Charlock said civilly enough. "And,
if such is your opinion, it is entitled to every respect. If I can do
anything to help you I will. But I am certain that you are mistaken."
"We shall see," Tanza said drily. "In the first place, will you be good
enough to show us the famous sundial where the accident took place, and
perhaps you can tell me whether the poor woman's dress was singed? Was
it round the skirt, for instance?"
"Personally, I could see no trace of it," Charlock said. "There was a
certain fraying of the cloth round one of the wrists, and a swelling of
the hand, as if the fingers had been recently charred. But, then, my
wife tells me that Hortense inadvertently put her right hand on a pair
of almost red-hot curling tongs a day or two ago, which gives the
incident a very prosaic complexion. I think you can dismiss the singeing
idea altogether."
For the moment the doctor looked disconcerted. But he had no intention
of discarding his theory. He dropped behind, discussing the matter with
Charlock, while Grey went forward to the part of the garden where the
sundial was situated. He stood there admiring the beautiful carving of
the marble and thinking how appropriate were the surroundings. The
fountain was playing again. The sundial was like a gleaming statue in
the sun. The Latin inscription on the top glistened in brass letters.
There appeared to be nothing to connect the sundial with the cruel and
cold-blooded murder. And, though Tanza talked scientifically about his
theories, he did not appear to be making much progress.
"You are wrong," Charlock said. "I am sure the whole thing was no more
than an unfortunate accident. I don't care what the doctor says.
However, I sha'n't be here after to-morrow, but you are at liberty to
come whenever you please and make what investigations you like. And
now, if you will excuse me, I will get back to the house. You will
pardon me if I don't ask you to come in."
Charlock turned away none too graciously, and the Italian doctor
shrugged his shoulders.
"It is as well we are alone," he said. "I shall yet convince our friend
that I am right. All the same, I am bound to confess that we look like
having our trouble for our pains. Now, I suppose you don't see anything
suspicious, anything which is hidden from unscientific eyes?"
"As a matter of fact, I can," Grey said quietly. "Only I waited till our
friend was gone. Look here!"
He stooped and picked up a small object, which he slipped upon his
thumb. Tanza lifted his brows interrogatively.
"Oh, it's a clue," Grey smiled. "What is it? Why, it is a finger torn
from an india-rubber glove!"
*CHAPTER VII*
*THE PHOTOGRAPH*
Malcolm Grey handled the piece of dirty india-rubber almost tenderly.
There was a smile on his face which somewhat irritated Tanza. The
little Italian, usually so quick at picking up a clue, was quite baffled
now. His instinct told him that Grey had made an important discovery.
He stretched out his hand eagerly.
"Let me look at it," he said.
"Certainly," Grey said good-naturedly. "Look at it, by all means, but
you won't make much out of the thing. It is simply a finger of a glove
made of india-rubber, which might mean anything. But to me it conveys a
good deal."
"And to me it conveys nothing," Tanza replied. "Now, let me see. Who
are the sort of men who wear india-rubber gloves? I suppose they are
manufactured for a certain class of sportsmen. I know they are used by
electricians, and latterly by up-to-date burglars. You know these
gentry have adopted india-rubber gloves to obliterate finger-marks. No
doubt one of the fraternity has been here, though I am bound to confess
that we are not getting much farther. What do you make of it?"
"If you don't mind, I won't tell you yet," Grey said. "Of course, you
have already invented a theory of your own, which may be right and which
may be wrong. You may not agree with me, but it is possible that if I
tell you my theory you will modify yours, to the destruction of,
perhaps, a really logical sequence of ideas. Now, if you keep your
notion to yourself and I keep mine to myself we may get a definite
conclusion all the sooner. Don't you think I am right?"
"Well, perhaps you are," Tanza said thoughtfully. "As for me, I have
already got a notion, so we will both preserve our ideas and see which
leads to the goal first."
"I am glad you said that," Grey remarked gravely. "I must confess that
when I picked up that finger-stall I was startled. It indicated a fresh
train of thought to me. It suggested one of the most startling and most
original crimes of modern times. The idea came to me like a flash. But
it is one thing to discover the source of a crime, and quite another to
put your hand upon the criminal. And now, if you don't mind, I think I
should like to be alone. There are one or two things I want to do
before I can put my theory into practice, and it would be much more
prudent if I exercised this discretion by myself."
"Right you are," Tanza said gaily. "I will return to the yacht. I
suppose you will be back to dinner?"
Grey made no reply. Already he seemed to be immersed in his own
thoughts. He was more or less oblivious of the presence of his
companion. When he was alone he walked round the marble basin of the
fountain, scrutinising every inch of the ground with minutest attention.
Round and round he went, with his eyes bent upon the earth, his body
doubled. But though he spent some considerable time there, nothing
seemed to reward his search. He shook his head as he turned away from
the fountain, and proceeded to walk backwards and forwards across the
lawn, like a man searching for some object which he has dropped. It was
not till he got to the edge of the grass that his face lighted and a
grim smile trembled on his thin lips. From the gravel path he took up a
mass of silk thread all ravelled up together, and a little farther on
was a piece of wire about the length of a pin, and also a small square
of india-rubber not larger than a postage stamp. These trivial objects
Grey placed in an envelope which he put in his pocket. As he looked up
he saw Charlock watching him curiously out of one of the windows of the
house. He was about to move away, when the artist beckoned to him. He
lingered a moment, and Charlock appeared at the front door and asked him
curtly if he would come in.
"I want to ask you a question or two," Charlock said. "You seem to have
built up a pretty good reputation since we used to meet at the Old
Bohemian Club in Craven Street. I believe you have studied medicine,
among other things?"
"Quite right," Grey smiled. "All the same, you don't look as if you
want a doctor. You are the picture of health."
Charlock smiled in his grimmest fashion.
"Am I?" he said. "In that case my looks belie me. I am not a crank or
a faddist, but certain signs which I have had lately are not to be
disregarded. I am strong enough physically, but those early days of
poverty have left their mark. It isn't good for a young man to starve
for weeks at a time, as I used to do. And of late I have been working
far too hard. You see, the trouble that worries me is here."
Charlock laid his hand upon his heart. He seemed to have some
difficulty in speaking. The smile died from Grey's lips and he became
serious. He had seen too many men of perfect _physique_ with that fatal
heart weakness to make light of Charlock's fears. He motioned him to a
chair.
"Take off your coat and waistcoat," he said, "and let me listen. It is
as well to be on the safe side."
The speaker laid his ear to Charlock's heart for a moment or two, and
when he rose there was a certain gravity in his eyes, which Charlock
noticed with a cynical smile.
"Well," he said, "is it very bad?"
"No," Grey said gravely. "I don't think so. Of course, I can't be
absolutely certain without a stethoscope, but I think there is nothing
organically wrong. You have been overstraining yourself and there is a
weakness which is more or less pronounced. A month's holiday, with
plenty of open air and exercise, will put you right again. Still, there
is another test which ought to settle the matter. Do you happen to have
such a thing in the house as a bottle of sal volatile? Or a little
brandy would do."
"No brandy for me," Charlock said. "I never touch the stuff. I
shouldn't wonder if there was a bottle of sal volatile in that
unfortunate maid's room. I understand that Hortense was hysterical and
used to doctor herself with the remedy you speak of. I'll ring the bell
and see."
A servant came in answer to the summons, but she stood hesitating as
Charlock told her what he needed. She was a domestic of the country
type, with vacant face and staring eyes. She shook her head stubbornly.
"I couldn't do it, sir," she said. "I wouldn't go into Hortense's
room--no, not if you was to double my wages. It isn't safe, my mother
always said, to go into the room of a suicide. It makes you feel that
way yourself."
Charlock appeared to be on the verge of an explosion of temper, when
Grey cut in. Expostulation was useless.
"Oh, never mind," he said. "Show me the room and I'll look for myself.
Now come along. I won't even ask you to come inside. If you will point
out the room to me----"
The round-eyed domestic accepted the compromise cheerfully. She piloted
Grey up the stairs and indicated a room at the far end of the corridor.
Then she retired precipitately, to Grey's great amusement. He knew that
it was useless to argue with rustics of that sort. He entered the room
and glanced around him.
The bedroom was comfortably furnished. There was a variety of pictures
and knickknacks on the walls, and a book-shelf was laden with French
novels. The maid had furnished her bedroom in imitation of a lady's
boudoir. She was of luxurious habits, too, for a fire was laid in the
grate and an attempt had been made to light it. Paper and sticks were
charred away, but the coal had been obstinate and had refused to burn.
A few letters had been torn up and thrown in the back of the fire, and
these, for the most part, were charred and smoked until only a few words
could be read. In a spirit of idle curiosity, Grey knelt down and
examined these. He smiled to himself at his own weakness. Clearly he
had caught this fever of investigation from his Italian friend. After a
moment or two, however, his amused smile vanished, he grew deeply
interested. A fragment of one of the letters was in his hand. He could
make out a few words thereon, among which stood out prominently the
expression "be cautious," and then, lower down, the still more
significant words "the sundial."
There was nothing on the back of the paper, nothing more to indicate the
writer's meaning. But, whoever the writer was, he had conveyed a warning
to Hortense by means of his letter, and in some strange, inscrutable way
that warning was mixed up with the old Roman sundial. No doubt the maid
had torn up the letter and thrown it on the fire while the sticks were
still burning, taking it for granted, of course, that the letter was
destroyed.
"A lucky find," Grey murmured to himself. "There is more here than meets
the eye. I shall have a fine story for Tanza. Still, it is one thing
to know how a crime is committed and another to discover the
perpetrator. I wonder if I can find a further clue--hallo!"
Grey almost started as he pulled from the grate a photograph which had
been torn across the middle. He placed the two pieces together and
examined them by the light of the window. There was a puzzled
expression on his face as he looked at the photograph, which was that of
two men dressed for some outdoor sport. One face was strange to him,
but he recognised the other.
"Arnold Rent," he muttered. "Rent, to a certainty."
*CHAPTER VIII*
*THE RUBICON*
John Charlock had finished his breakfast and was busy with his
correspondence. He looked up presently as his wife came in. The tall,
slender figure looked graceful and attractive in the thin black dress
she was wearing, and Charlock's artistic eye was pleased with the
picture. He knew that Kate's gown was an expensive one, and that there
was about it a marked, if subdued, suggestion of festivity. His brows
contracted. Surely that dress must have been ordered since he had
spoken of the need of economy.
"Your grief is chastened," he said. "It is good to see how you are
bearing up under your crushing sorrow. You have come to the conclusion
that it is your duty not to repine. Well, what is it? Going off
somewhere for the day? A little innocent enjoyment will do you no
harm."
"I was thinking of it," Kate Charlock said coldly. "I am going to
Southampton to spend the day with some friends. But I shall be back in
time for dinner."
Charlock rubbed his hands together slowly. There was a peculiar smile
upon his rugged face.
"Oh, I am glad to hear that," he said. "Whatever you do, don't forget
to come back to dinner, because I have a pleasant surprise awaiting you.
I was not sure until I got my letter this morning, but now all doubt is
removed. Good-bye and a pleasant day to you. Make the most of your
chances."
Kate Charlock asked no questions. She had no curiosity concerning her
husband's meaning. She came back in the cool of the evening. She
passed through the lodge gates and noted the untidy state of the drive.
The place was littered here and there with straw and shavings. The
marks of the wheels of a heavy waggon were to be plainly seen on the
side of the lawn. Kate was vexed, for she had always prided herself
upon the symmetry and tidiness of her garden. She looked towards the
gardener's lodge, and, to her surprise, observed that it was empty.
Her heart sank with a foreboding of coming evil as she quickened her
pace towards the house. Here the litter increased. Shavings and scraps
of paper had blown across the velvet lawn, a broken packing-case or two
stood by the front door. With feelings of alarm and agitation, Kate
Charlock looked up at the long rows of blank windows, which seemed to be
staring her out of countenance. The window-boxes with their brilliant
flowers had gone and the fine lace curtains and the rose-tinted silk
blinds had vanished. Where a few hours before had been the picture of a
refined English home was now mere chaos and desolation. With faltering
footsteps and trembling limbs, Kate Charlock passed through the front
door, which stood wide open for all the world to enter.
Her footsteps echoed on the bare boards. More by instinct than anything
else, she called her husband by name. She could hear her voice echoing
from room to room. She knew now that the place was absolutely and
entirely bare. Then there was the sound of an answering footfall and
John Charlock stood by the side of his wife in the dismantled
drawing-room.
"Well," he said, "and what do you think of it? I promised you a
surprise, and here it is. For days I have been expecting the creditor
who holds the bill of sale to carry out his threat and remove
everything. This morning he informed me what he was going to do, and he
has done it. Save your own belongings, which are packed away in your
dressing-room, the house is empty. I didn't tell you this before,
because I did not wish to spoil your holiday. But you will see that it
is impossible to remain. Fortunately, the cottage is ready. Now, if
you will dry your eyes and try to play the woman, we will go off
together where we can have a roof over our heads and no more of this
sickening anxiety for the future. Come."
Charlock held out his hand, but the woman shrank from him. There was
terror as well as grief in her eyes. She shuddered with loathing from
head to foot. She could not do it. Come what might, she could not do
it. In her heart of hearts she had never expected such a crushing blow.
It was so like John Charlock to spring it on her in this cruel fashion.
"No," she said, as she wiped the tears angrily from her cheeks.
"Between you and me there is an end of all things. I am not coming with
you. If I were starving at this moment I would decline to cross the
threshold of your cottage. Oh, you need not worry. I shall make a
living somehow. To-night I shall stay with Mrs. Bromley-Martin and ask
her advice and assistance. Henceforward our lives shall be spent
apart."
"And that is your last word?" Charlock asked.
"I have no more to say, except good-bye."
Charlock turned and strode resolutely from the house. There was a queer
smile on his face, though his heart was hot and angry. He passed out
through the gates in the direction of his cottage. He gave no heed to
his wife standing in the deserted home. And he had gone out of her mind
directly.
What was she to do? How would the next chapter in the story read? She
had spoken bravely enough about her friend Mrs. Bromley-Martin, but she
knew in her heart of hearts how shallow and insincere all the so-called
friendships in her own set were. Still, she was not penniless. Her
husband had told her where she would find all her belongings, and her
jewels were worth some hundreds of pounds. She would gather those
together and go and stay at a hotel for the night. She was still
debating the matter in her mind when she heard footsteps in the hall,
and her courage deserted her for the moment. She drew a breath of
something more than relief as Arnold Rent came forward.
"This is almost providential," she sighed. "How did you come to know
that I was in such sore need of you?"
"That was prosaic enough," Rent said, with a strange thrill in his
voice. "I came to see your husband by appointment. He promised me an
answer to my arguments, but I did not expect to get it in such a
dramatic way as this. Still, I was prepared for what I have found,
because I met Mrs. Bromley-Martin just now and she seems to know
everything. She is very sorry for you, but when I suggested that she
should place her house at your disposal for a few days, she flatly
refused, saying that her house was already too full. My dear Mrs.
Charlock, what do you propose to do? How can I help you?"
Kate Charlock threw up her hands in despair.
"I am stunned," she said. "I am overwhelmed by this cruel stroke. Now
you see what manner of man my husband is. Now you see the creature that
I have had to put up with. A few minutes since he taunted me with my
extravagance and, with a sneer on his lips, offered me the shelter of
his cottage. I don't profess to have more courage than most women, but
the worm will turn at last, and I refused to go. He has left me nothing
but my belongings, nothing but this desolate house. Ah, it is a true
saying that it is always the woman who pays."
A simulated indignation swept over Arnold Rent. Then his heart softened
to tenderness and love and pity. Why should this beautiful woman be
left alone in the world? Why should he not help her? Good heavens, how
blind John Charlock must be! Thousands of good men would give all they
possessed to have the affection of a creature like this. She stood
there in a supplicating attitude, her large, pathetic eyes turned on
Rent. She was asking him as plainly as words could speak for counsel.
Passionate sobs were breaking from her. She held out her hands to Rent,
murmuring piteously that he was the only friend she had in all the wide
world. He caught those hands in a firm grip. He forgot everything in
the delirious excitement of the moment. Once more the woman was in his
arms, his lips were pressed to hers, and she was sobbing on his
shoulder.
"Oh, I know this is terribly wrong," she murmured. "But I am so
miserable and so helpless. What can I do? What am I good for, except to
be the faithful wife and companion of some good man who can understand
me and whose heart is entirely mine? But that is a dream. Tell me,
Arnold, that you are not ashamed of my impulsive action."
Rent made no reply for the moment. His mind was moving quickly. He
looked eagerly and vividly into the future. He could see his airy
castles vanishing before the fragrant breath of the woman who had
abandoned herself to his embrace. In an instant all was gone to the
winds, and a mere man, palpitating and trembling with sheer humanity,
was holding in his arms that for which he was going to forfeit the
world.
"Not another word," he whispered hoarsely. "I am glad I came here
to-night, both for your sake and mine. You shall have no more anxiety
for the future. We will live for that future, you and me. Dearest, I
could not let you go. Say you will let me act for you. Your honour is
safe in my hands."
*CHAPTER IX*
*BEYOND THE BRIDGE*
Kate Charlock regarded the speaker with startled eyes. The crimson wave
stained her face and she stood as if the mere suggestion petrified her.
It was as if she had suddenly stepped into a world of sin and trouble
from some Arcadia where such things were only heard of or discussed in
whispers.
It was magnificently done, so spontaneous. Arnold Rent was moved to a
real, deep admiration. It seemed strange to him that any man could be
cruel to so beautiful a saint. He waited in a kind of rapture for Kate
to speak.