WHEREIN FURNEAUX SEEKS INSPIRATION FROM
LITERATURE AND ART
The head of the Criminal Investigation Department was not the sort of
man to accept meekly whatsoever coarse commands Robert Fenley chose to
fling at him. He met the newcomer's angry stare with a cold and steady
eye.
"You should moderate your language in the presence of death, Mr.
Fenley," he said. "We are here because it is our duty. You, on your
part, would have acted more discreetly had you gone to your mother's
assistance instead of swearing at those who were acting for the best
under trying conditions."
"Damn your eyes, are you speaking to me?" came the wrathful cry.
"Surely you have been told that your father is lying there dead!" went
on Winter sternly. "Mrs. Fenley might have yielded readily to your
persuasion, but your help took the form of threatening people who
adopted the only other course possible. Calm yourself, sir, and try to
remember that the father from whom you parted in anger has been
murdered. My colleague and I represent Scotland Yard; we were brought
here by your brother. See that you meet us in the dining-room in a
quarter of an hour. Come, Furneaux!"
And, stirred for once to a feeling of deep annoyance, the big man
strode out into the open air, with a sublime disregard for either the
anger or the alarm struggling for mastery in Robert Fenley's sullen
face.
"Phew!" he said, drawing a deep breath before descending the steps.
"What an unlicked cub! And they wanted to marry that girl to him!"
"It sha'n't be done, James," said Furneaux.
"I actually lost my temper," puffed the other.
"Tell you what! Let's put the Inspector on to him. Tell the local
sleuths half what we know, and they'll run him in like a shot."
"Pooh! He's all talk. Tomlinson is right. The neurotic Hilton has more
nerve in his little finger than that dolt in the whole of his body."
"What did you think of his boots?"
"I shall be surprised if they don't fit those footprints exactly."
"They will. The left heel is evenly worn, but the right bears on the
outer edge. Let's cool our fevered brows under the greenwood tree till
this hearse is out of the way."
The butler, who had asked the undertaker's assistants to suspend
operations when Robert Fenley arrived, now appeared at the door and
signaled the men that they were free to proceed with their work. The
detectives strolled into the wood, and soon were bending over some
curious blotchy marks which somehow suggested the passage of a
pad-footed animal rather than a human being. Bates, of course, would
have noted them had he not been on the alert for footprints alone, but
they had stared at Winter and Furneaux from the instant their
regularity became apparent. They represented a stride considerably
shorter than the average length of a man's pace, and were strongly
marked when the surface was spongy enough to receive an impression.
Except, however, in the slight hollow already described, the ground
was so dry that traces of every sort were lost. In the vicinity of the
rock, too, the only marks left were the scratches in the moss adhering
to the steep sides of the bowlder itself.
"What do you make of 'em, Charles?" inquired Winter, when both had
puzzled for some minutes over the uncommon signs.
"Some one has thought out the footprint as a clue pretty thoroughly,"
said Furneaux. "He not only took care to leave a working model of one
set, but was extremely anxious not to provide any data as to his own
tootsies, so he fastened a bundle of rags under each boot, and walked
like a cat on walnut shells."
Winter nodded.
"When we find the gun, too--it's somewhere in this wood--you'll see
that the fingerprints won't help," he replied thoughtfully. "The man
who remembered to safeguard his feet would not forget his hands. We're
up against a tough proposition, young fellow-me-lad."
"Your way of thinking reminds me of Herbert Spencer's reason for not
learning Latin grammar as a youth," grinned Furneaux.
"It would be a pity to spoil one of your high-class jokes; so what was
the reason?"
"He refused to accept any statement unaccompanied by proof. The
agreement of an adjective with its noun displeased him, because an
arbitrary rule merely said it was so."
"An ingenious excuse for not learning a lesson, but I don't see----"
"Consider. Mortimer Fenley was shot dead at nine thirty this morning,
and the bullet which killed him came from the neighborhood of the rock
above our heads. One shot was fired. It was so certain, so true of
aim, that the murderer made sure of hitting him--at a fairly long
range, too. How many men were there in Roxton and Easton this
morning--was there even one woman?--capable of sighting a rifle with
such calm confidence of success? Mind you, Fenley had to be killed
dead. No bungling. A severe wound from which he might recover would
not meet the case at all. Again, how many rifles are there in the
united parishes of Roxton and Easton of the type which fires expanding
bullets?"
"Of course, those vital facts narrow down the field, but Hilton Fenley
was unquestionably in the house."
Furneaux cackled shrilly.
"You're in Herbert's class, Charles," he cried, delighted at having
trapped his big friend.
"Pardon me, gentlemen," said a voice from among the leaves, "but I
thought you might like to know that Mr. Robert Fenley is starting off
again on his motor bike."
Even as Police Constable Farrow spoke they heard the loud snorting of
an exhaust, marking the initial efforts of a motor bicycle's engine to
get under way. In a few seconds came the rhythmic beat of the machine
as it gathered speed; the two men looked at each other and laughed.
"Master Robert defies the majesty of the law," said Winter dryly.
"Perhaps, taking one consideration with another, it's the best thing
he could have done."
"He is almost bound to enter London by the Edgware Road," said
Furneaux instantly.
"Just so. I noticed the make and number of his machine. A
plain-clothes man on an ordinary bicycle can follow him easily from
Brondesbury onwards. Time him, and get on the telephone while I keep
Hilton in talk. If we're mistaken we'll ring up Brondesbury again."
Winter was curtly official in tone when Hilton Fenley came downstairs
at his request.
"Why did your brother rush off in such an extraordinary hurry?" he
asked.
"How can I tell you?" was the reply, given offhandedly, as if the
matter was of no importance. "He comes and goes without consulting my
wishes, I assure you."
"But I requested him to meet me here at this very hour. There are
questions he has to answer, and it would have been best in his own
interests had he not shirked them."
"I agree with you fully. I hadn't the least notion he meant going
until I looked out on hearing the bicycle, and saw him racing down the
avenue."
"Do you think, sir, he is making for London?"
"I suppose so. That is where he came from. He says he heard of his
father's death through the newspapers, and it would not surprise me in
the least if I did not see him again until after the funeral."
"Thank you, sir. I'm sorry I bothered you, but I imagined or hoped he
had given you some explanation. His conduct calls for it."
The Superintendent's manner had gradually become more suave. He
realized that these Fenleys were queer folk. Like the Pharisee, "they
were not as other men," but whether the difference between them and
the ordinary mortal arose from pride or folly or fear it was hard to
say.
Hilton Fenley smiled wanly.
"Bob is adopting the supposed tactics of the ostrich when pursued," he
said.
"But no one is pursuing him."
"I am speaking metaphorically, of course. He is in distress, and hides
behind the first bush. He has no moral force--never had. Physically he
doesn't know what fear is, but the specters of the mind loom large in
his eyes. And now, Superintendent, I am just on the point of leaving
for London. I shall return about six thirty. Do you remain?"
"No, sir. I shall return to town almost immediately. Mr. Furneaux will
stop here. Can he have a bedroom in the house?"
"Certainly. Tomlinson will look after him. You are not going cityward,
I suppose?"
"No, sir. But if you care to have a seat in my car----"
"No, thanks. The train is quicker and takes me direct to London
Bridge. Much obliged."
Fenley hurried to the cloakroom, which was situated under the stairs,
but on a lower level than the hall. The telephone box was placed
there, and Furneaux emerged as the other ran down a few steps. The
little man hailed him cheerfully.
"I suppose, now," he said, "that hot headed brother of yours thinks he
has dodged Scotland Yard till it suits his convenience to be
interviewed. Strange how people insist on regarding us as novices in
our own particular line. Now you wouldn't make that mistake, sir."
"What mistake? I wouldn't run away, if that is what you mean."
"I'm sure of that, sir. But Mr. Robert has committed the additional
folly, from his point of view, of letting us know why he was so
desperately anxious to get back to London."
"But he didn't say a word!"
"Ah, words, idle words!
"Words are like leaves; and where they most abound
Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found.
"It is actions that count, sir. Deeds, not words. Now, Mr. Robert has
been kind enough to give us the eloquent facts, because he will be
followed from the suburbs and his whereabouts watched most carefully."
"Dear me! I hadn't thought of that," said Hilton Fenley slowly. Two
ideas were probably warring in his brain at that moment. One classed
Furneaux as a garrulous idiot; the other suggested that there might be
method in such folly.
"That's a clever simile of Pope's about dense leaves betokening
scarcity of fruit," went on Furneaux. "Of course, it might be pushed
too far. Think what a poisonous Dead Sea apple the Quarry Wood
contained. Your father's murder might not have been possible today
but for the cover given by the trees."
Fenley selected a dark overcoat and derby hat. He wore a black tie,
but had made no other change in his costume.
"You are quite a literary detective, Mr. Furneaux," he commented.
"More literal than literary, sir. I have little leisure for reading,
but I own an excellent memory. Nothing to boast of in that. It's
indispensable in my profession."
"Obviously. Well, I must hurry away now. See you later."
He hastened out. His manner seemed to hint an annoyance; it conveyed
indefinitely but subtly a suggestion that his father's death was far
too serious a thing to be treated with such levity.
Furneaux sauntered slowly to the front door. By that time the Fenley
car was speeding rapidly down the avenue.
"With luck," he said to Winter, who had joined him, "with any sort of
luck both brothers should pass their father's body on the way to the
mortuary. Sometimes, O worthy chief, I find myself regretting the ways
and means of the days of old, when men believed in the Judicium Dei.
"Neither of those sons went near his dead father. If one of them had
dared I wonder whether the blood would have liquefied. Do you
remember, in the 'Nibelungenlied,' that Hagen is forced to prove his
innocence by touching Siegfried's corpse--and fails? That is the
point--he fails. Our own Shakespeare knew the dodge. When Henry VI was
being borne to Chertsey in an open coffin, the Lady Anne made Gloster
squirm by her cry:
"O gentlemen, see, see! Dead Henry's wounds
Open their congeal'd mouths, and bleed afresh.
"Why then did those sons fight shy of touching their father's body?
Had it been your father or mine who was beaten down by a murderer's
spite, we would surely have given him one fare-well clasp of the
hand."
Winter recognized the symptoms. His diminutive friend was examining
the embryo of a theory already established in his mind. It was a
mere shadow, something vague and dark and uncertain in outline. But
it existed, and would assume recognizable shape when an active
imagination had fitted some shreds of proof to that which was yet
without form and void. At that crisis, contradiction was a tonic.
"I think you're in error in one respect," said Winter quietly. "Hilton
Fenley went to his father's assistance, and we don't know whether or
not Robert did not approach the body."
"You're wrong, most sapient one. Before telephoning Brondesbury I
asked Harris to tell me exactly what happened after the banker dropped
at his feet. Harris shouted and knelt over him. Miss Manning ran and
lifted his head. Tomlinson, Harris and Brodie carried him to the
settee. Hilton Fenley never touched him."
"What of Robert? We cleared out, leaving him there alone."
"I watched him until the undertaker's men were called back. Up to that
time he hadn't moved. Bet you a new hat the men will tell you he never
went nearer."
"You buy your own new hats," said Winter. "Do you want me to stand you
two a day? I'm off to the Yard. I'll look up two lines in town. 'Phone
through if you want help and I'll come. You sleep here tonight if you
care to. Tomlinson will provide. How about the wood?"
"Leave it."
"You'll see that artist, Trenholme?"
"Yes."
"And the bedrooms?"
"Going there now."
"So long! Sorry I must quit, but I'm keen to clear up that telephone
call."
"If you're in the office about six I'll tell you the whole story."
"Charles," said Winter earnestly, placing a hand on his colleague's
shoulder, "we gain nothing by rushing our fences. This is the toughest
job we've handled this year; there's a hard road to travel before we
sit down and prepare a brief for counsel."
"Of course, I meant the story up to the six o'clock instalment."
Winter smiled. He sprang into the car, the chauffeur having already
started the engine in obedience to a word from the Superintendent.
"Stop at the Brondesbury police station," was the order, and Furneaux
was left alone. He reentered the house and crooked a finger at the
butler, who had not summoned up courage to retire to his own sanctum,
though a midday meal was awaiting him.
"Take me upstairs," said the detective. "I shall not detain you many
minutes. Then you and I will have a snack together and you'll borrow a
bicycle for me, and I sha'n't trouble you any more till a late hour."
"No trouble at all, sir," Tomlinson assured him. "If I could advance
your inquiry in the least degree I'd fast cheerfully all day."
"What I like about you, Tomlinson, is your restraint," said Furneaux.
"Many a man would have offered to fast a week, not meaning to deny
himself a toothful five minutes longer than was avoidable. Now you
really mean what you say----Ah, this is Mr. Robert's den. And that is
his bedroom, with dressing-room adjoining. Very cozy, to be sure. Of
course, the rooms have been dusted regularly since he disappeared on
Saturday?"
"Every day, sir."
"Well, I hate prying into people's rooms. Beastly liberty, I call it.
Now for Mr. Hilton's."
"Is that all, sir?" inquired the butler, manifestly surprised by the
cursory glance which the detective had given around the suite of
apartments.
"All at present, thank you. Like the Danites' messengers, I'm only
spying out the lie of the land. Ah, each brother occupied a corner of
the east wing. Robert, north, Hilton, south--a most equitable
arrangement. Now these rooms show signs of tenancy, eh?"
They were standing in Hilton Fenley's sitting-room, having traversed
the whole of the gallery around the hall to reach it. The remains of a
fire in the grate caught Furneaux's eye, and the butler coughed
apologetically.
"Mr. Hilton won't have his rooms touched, sir, until he leaves home of
a morning," he said. "He likes to find his papers, et cetera, where he
put them overnight. As a rule the housemaid comes here soon after
breakfast, but this morning--naturally----"
"Of course, of course," assented the other promptly. "Everything is at
sixes and sevens. Would you mind sending the girl here? I'd like to
have a word with her."
Tomlinson moved ponderously towards an electric bell.
"No," said Furneaux. "Don't ring. Just ask her to come. Then she can
bring me to your place and we'll nibble something. Meanwhile I'll
enjoy this view."
"Certainly, sir. That will suit me admirably."
Tomlinson walked out with stately tread. His broad back was scarcely
turned before the detective's nimble feet had carried him into the
bedroom, which stood in the southeast angle. He seemed to fly around
the room like one possessed of a fiend of unrest. Picking up a glass
tumbler, he sniffed it and put it in a pocket. He peered at the bed,
the dressing-table, the carpet; opened drawers and wardrobe doors,
examined towels in the bathroom, and stuffed one beneath his
waistcoat.
Running back to the sitting-room, he found a torn envelope, and began
picking up some specks of grit from the carpet, each of which went
into a corner of the envelope, which he folded and stowed away. Then
he bent over the fireplace and rummaged among the cinders. Three
calcined lumps, not wholly consumed, appeared to interest him. A
newspaper was handy; he wrapped the grimy treasure trove in a sheet,
and that small parcel also went into a pocket.
When a swish of skirts on the stairs announced the housemaid he
retreated to the bedroom, and the girl found him standing at a south
window, gazing out over the fair vista of the Italian terraces and the
rolling parkland.
"Yes, sir," said the girl timidly.
He turned, as if he had not heard her approach. She was pale, and her
eyes were red, for the feminine portion of the household was in a
state of collapse.
"I only wanted to ask why a fire is laid in the sitting-room in such
fine weather," he said.
"Mr. Hilton sits up late, sir, and if the evening is at all chilly, he
puts a match to the grate himself."
"Ah, a silly question. Don't tell anybody I spoke of it or they'll
think me a funny detective, won't they?"
He smiled genially, and the girl's face brightened.
"I don't see that, sir," she said. "I don't know why Mr. Hilton wanted
a fire last night. It was quite hot. I slept with my window wide
open."
"A very healthy habit, too. Do you attend to Mr. Robert's suite?"
"Yes, sir."
"Does _he_ have a fire?"
"Never in the summer, sir."
"He's a warmer-blooded creature than Mr. Hilton, I fancy."
"I expect so, sir."
"Well, now, there's nothing here. But we detectives have to nose
around everywhere. I'm sure you are terribly upset by your master's
death. Everybody gives him a good word."
"Indeed, he deserved it, sir. We all liked him. He was strict but very
generous."
Furneaux chatted with her while they descended the stairs and
traversed devious passages till the butler's room was gained. By that
time the housemaid was convinced that Mr. Furneaux was "a very nice
man." When she "did" Hilton Fenley's rooms she missed the glass, but
gave no heed to its absence. Who would bother about a glass in a house
where murder had been done? She simply replaced it by another of the
same pattern.
"May I inquire, sir," said Tomlinson, when Furneaux had washed face
and hands and was seated at a table laid for two, "may I inquire if
you have any preference as to a luncheon wine?"
"I think," said Furneaux with due solemnity, "that a still wine----"
"I agree with you, sir. At this time of the day a Sauterne or a
Johannisberger----"
"To my taste, a Chateau Yquem, with that delicate flavor which leaves
the palate fresh--Frenchmen call it the _seve_----"
"Sir, I perceive that you have a taste. Singularly enough, I have a
bottle of Chateau Yquem in my sideboard."
So the meal was a success.
An under gardener lent Furneaux a bicycle. After a chat with Farrow,
to whom he conveyed some sandwiches and a bottle of beer, the
detective rode to Easton. He sent a rather long telegram to his own
quarters, called at a chemist's, and reached the White Horse at Roxton
about two o'clock.
* * * * *
Now the imp of mischance had contrived that John Trenholme should hear
no word of the murder until he came downstairs for luncheon after a
morning's steady work.
The stout Eliza, fearful lest Mary should forestall her with the news,
bounced out from the kitchen when his step sounded on the stairs.
"There was fine goin's on in the park this morning, Mr. Trenholme,"
she began breathlessly.
He reddened at once, and avoided her fiery eye. Of course, it had been
discovered that he had watched that girl bathing. Dash it all, his
action was unintentional! What a bore!
"Mr. Fenley was shot dead on his own doorstep," continued Eliza.
She gave proper emphasis to the concluding words. That a man should
be murdered "on his own doorstep" was a feature of the crime that
enhanced the tragedy in the public mind. The shooting was bad enough
in itself, for rural England is happily free from such horrors; but
swift and brutal death dealt out on one's own doorstep was a thing at
once monstrous and awe-compelling. Eliza, perhaps, wondered why Mr.
Trenholme flushed, but she fully understood the sudden blanching of
his face at her tidings, for all Roxton was shaken to its foundations
when the facts slowly percolated in that direction.
"Good Lord!" cried he. "Could that be the shot I heard?"
"He was killed at half past nine, sir."
"Then it was! A keeper heard it, too--and a policeman--our Roxton
policeman."
"That would be Farrow," said Eliza. "What was _he_ doin', the
lazy-bones, that he couldn't catch the villain?"
"What villain?"
"The man who killed poor Mr. Fenley."
"They know who did it, then?"
"Well, no. There's all sorts o' tales flyin' about, but you can't
believe any of 'em."
"But why are you blaming Farrow? He's a good fellow. He sings. No real
scoundrel can sing. Read any novel, any newspaper report. 'The
prisoner's voice was harsh and unmusical.' You've seen those words
scores of times."
In his relief at learning that his own escapade was not published
broadcast, Trenholme had momentarily forgotten the dreadful nature of
Eliza's statement. She followed him into the dining-room.
"You'll be a witness, I suppose," she said, anxious to secure details
of the shot-firing.
"A witness!" he repeated blankly.
"Yes, sir. There can't be a deal o' folk who heard the gun go off."
"By Jove, Eliza, I believe you're right," he said, gazing at her in
dismay. "Now that I come to think of it, I am probably the only person
in existence who can say where that shot came from. It was a rifle,
too. I spoke of it to the keeper and Farrow."
"I was sure something would happen when I dreamed of suffrigettes this
mornin'. An' that comes of playin' pranks, Mr. Trenholme. If it wasn't
for that alarm clock----"
"Oh, come, Eliza," he broke in. "An alarm clock isn't a Gatling gun.
Your association of ideas is faulty. There is much in common between
the clatter of an alarm clock and the suffragist cause, but all the
ladies promised not to endanger life, you know."
"Anyhow, Mr. Fenley is dead as a doornail," said Eliza firmly.
"Too bad. I take back all the hard things I said about him, and I'm
sure you do the same."
"Me!"
"Yes. Didn't you say all the Fenleys were rubbish? One of them, at any
rate, was wrongly classified."
"Which one?"
Trenholme bethought himself in time.
"This unfortunate banker, of course," he said.
"I'd a notion you meant Miss Sylvia. She's pretty as a
picter--prettier than some picters I've seen--and folk speak well of
her. But she's not a Fenley."
At any other time the artist would have received that thrust _en
tierce_ with a _riposte_; at present, Eliza's facts were more
interesting than her wit.
"Who is the lady you are speaking of?" he asked guardedly.
"Mr. Fenley's ward, Miss Sylvia Manning. They say she's rich. Pore
young thing! Some schemin' man will turn her head, I'll go bail, an'
all for the sake of her brass."
"Most likely a one-legged gunner, name of Jim."
"Well, it won't be a two-legged painter, name of Jack!" And Eliza
bounced out.
Now, Mary of the curl papers, having occasion to go upstairs while
Trenholme was eating, peeped through the open door of the room which
he had converted into a studio. She saw a picture on the easel, and
the insatiable curiosity of her class led her to examine it. Even a
country kitchen maid came under its spell instantly. After a pause of
mingled admiration and shocked prudery, she sped to the kitchen.
"Seein' is believin'," quoted Eliza, mounting the stairs in her turn.
She gazed at the drawing brazenly, with hands resting on hips and head
cocked sidewise like an inquisitive hen's.
"Well, I never did!" was her verdict.
Back in the kitchen again, she announced firmly to Mary--
"_I'll_ take in the cheese."
She put the Stilton on the table with a determined air.
"You don't know anything about Miss Sylvia Manning, don't you?" she
said, with calm guile.
"Never heard the lady's name before you mentioned it," said Trenholme.
"Mebbe not, but it strikes me you've _seen_ more of her than most
folk."
"Eliza," he cried, without any pretense at smiling good humor, "you've
been sneaking!"
"Sneakin', you call it? I 'appened to pass your room, an' who could
help lookin' in? I was never so taken aback in me life. You could ha'
knocked me down with a feather."
"An ostrich feather with an ostrich's leg behind it," was the angry
retort.
Eliza's eyes glinted with the fire of battle.
"The shameless ways of girls nowadays!" she breathed. "To let any
young man gaze at her in them sort of clothes, if you can call 'em
clothes!"
"It was an accident. She didn't know I was there. Anyhow, you dare
utter another word about that picture, even hint at its existence, and
I'll paint you without any clothes at all. I mean that, so beware!"
"Sorry to interrupt," said a high-pitched voice from the doorway.
"You are Mr. John Trenholme, I take it? May I come in? My name's
Furneaux."
"Jim, of the Royal Artillery?" demanded Trenholme angrily.
"No. Charles Francois, of Scotland Yard."
Eliza fled, completely cowed. She began to weep, in noisy gulps.
"I've dud-dud-done it!" she explained to agitated curl papers. "That
pup-pup-pore Mr. Trenholme. They've cuc-cuc-come for him. He'll be
lul-lul-locked up, an' all along o' my wu-wu-wicked tongue!"