FURNEAUX STATES SOME FACTS AND CERTAIN FANCIES
This record of a day remarkable beyond any other in the history of
secluded Roxton might strike a more cheerful note if it followed the
two young people across the park. It is doubtful whether or not Sylvia
Manning's unpremeditated action in accompanying Trenholme was inspired
by a sudden interest in art or by revolt against the tribulations
which had befallen her. Of course there is some probability that a
full and true account of the conversation between man and maid as they
walked the half mile to Jackson's farm might throw a flood of light on
this minor problem. Be that as it may, stern necessity demands that
the chronicle should revert for a time to the sayings and doings of
the Fenleys and the detectives.
Despite a roundabout route, Furneaux had merely led Robert Fenley
through the gardens to the Quarry Wood. Somewhat to the detective's
surprise, the rock was unguarded. The two were standing there,
discussing the crime, when Police Constable Farrow returned to his
post. Furneaux said nothing--for some reason he did not emphasize the
fact to his companion that a sentry should have been found stationed
there--but a sharp glance at the policeman warned the latter that he
ran considerable risk of a subsequent reprimand.
Conscious of rectitude, Farrow saluted, and produced his notebook.
"I've just made a memo of this, sir," he said, pointing to an entry.
Furneaux read:
Miss Sylvia Manning left home 6.45 P. M. Met Mr. John Trenholme,
artist, White Horse Inn, in avenue 6.47 P. M. The two held close
conversation, and went off together across park in direction of
Roxton 6.54 P. M. Lady wore no hat. Regarded incident as unusual,
so observed exact times.
"I note what the Inspector says, and will discuss the point later,"
said Furneaux, returning the book. The policeman grinned. As between
Scotland Yard and himself a complete understanding was established.
"Have the local police discovered anything of importance?" inquired
Fenley, who, now that his own affairs called for no immediate
attention, seemed to give more heed to the manner of his father's
death. At first, his manner to Furneaux had been churlish in the
extreme. Evidently he thought he could treat the representative of the
Criminal Investigation Department just as he pleased. At this moment
he elected to be gruffly civil in tone.
"They are making full inquiries, of course," replied the detective,
"but I think the investigation will be conducted in the main by my
Department----As I was saying, Mr. Fenley, undoubtedly the shot was
fired from this locality. Dr. Stern, who is an authority on bullet
wounds, is convinced of that, even if there was no other evidence,
such as the chauffeur's and the artist's I told you of, together with
the impressions formed by Bates and others."
"Were there no footprints?" was the next question, and Fenley eyed the
ground critically. He deemed those Scotland Yard Johnnies thickheaded
chaps, at the best.
"None of any value. Since ten o'clock, however, dozens of new ones
have been made. That is why the policeman is keeping an eye on the
place--chiefly to warn off intruders. Shall we return to the house?"
"It's a strange business," said Fenley, striding down the slope by
Furneaux's side. "Why in the world should any one want to shoot my
poor old guv'nor? He was straight as a die, and I don't know a soul
who had any real grievance against him."
Furneaux did not appear to be listening. The two were approaching the
patch of moist earth which bore the impress of Robert Fenley's boots.
"By the way," he said suddenly, "are you aware that there is a sort of
a theory that your father was shot by a rifle belonging to you?"
"What?" roared the other, and it was hard to say whether rage or
astonishment predominated in his voice. "Is that one of Hilton's
dodges to get me into trouble?"
"But you do own an Express rifle, which you keep in your sitting-room.
Where is it now?"
"In the place where it always is. Standing in a corner behind the
bookcase."
"When did you see it last, Mr. Fenley?"
"How the deuce do I know? I give it a run through with an oiled rag
about once a month. It must be nearly a month since I cleaned it."
"It has gone."
"Gone where?"
"I wish I knew."
"But who the devil could have taken it?"
If ever a man was floundering in a morass of wrath and amazement it
was this loud-voiced youngster. He was a slow-witted lout, but the
veriest dullard must have perceived that the disappearance of the
weapon which presumably killed his father was a serious matter for its
owner.
In order to grasp this new phase of the tragedy in its proper bearings
he stood stock still, and gazed blankly into the serious face of the
detective. Furneaux knew he would do that. It was a mannerism. Some
men can not think and move at the same moment, and Robert Fenley was
one.
Naturally, young Fenley did not know that he was leaving a new set of
footprints by the side of the others already attributed to him. Having
done that, he was no longer wanted.
"We'll solve every part of the puzzle in time," said Furneaux slowly,
moistening his thin lips with his tongue as if he were about to taste
another glass of rare old-vintage wine.
"I mentioned the fact of the gun being missing to show you how unwise
you were this morning. You shouldn't have bolted off as you did when
Mr. Winter requested you to remain. I haven't the least doubt, Mr.
Fenley, that you can prove you were in London at the time the murder
was committed, and during some days prior to it, but the police like
these matters to be cleared up; if I may give you a hint, you'll tell
the Superintendent that you regret your behavior, and show you mean
what you say by giving him all the information he asks for. Here he is
now. I hear Mr. Hilton's car, and Mr. Winter is coming with him from
town."
"Mr. Hilton's car? It's no more his car than mine. You mark my words,
there will be trouble in the family if my brother starts bossing
things. He hates me, and would do me an ill turn if he could. Was it
Hilton who spread this story about my gun?"
"No. Rather the reverse. He kept your name studiously out of it."
"Who was it, then? I have a right to know."
"I fail to recollect just how the matter cropped up. It was the
direct outcome of the common observation of several persons who heard
the report, and who were able to discriminate between one class of gun
and another. Anyhow, there is no occasion for you to squeal before you
are hurt. You acted like a fool this morning. Try and behave yourself
more reputably now."
The prophet Balaam was not more taken aback when rebuked by his ass
than Robert Fenley when Furneaux turned and rent him in this fashion.
Hitherto the detective's manner had been mildness itself, so this
change of front was all the more staggering.
"Oh, I say!" came the blustering protest. "I don't allow any of you
fellows to talk to me like that. I----"
"You'll hear worse in another second if you really annoy me," said
Furneaux. "Heretofore no one seems to have troubled to inform you what
a special sort of idiot you are. Though your last words to your father
were a threat that you were inclined to shoot him and your precious
self, when you saw him lying dead you thought of nothing but your own
wretched follies, and bolted off to Hendon Road, Battersea, instead of
remaining here and trying to help the police.
"When I tell you your gun is missing you yelp about your brother's
animosity. Before your father is laid in his grave you threaten
to upset the household because your brother acts as its master.
Why shouldn't he? Are you fitted to take the reins or share his
responsibility? If you were at your right job, Robert Fenley, you'd
be carrying bricks and mortar in a hod; for you haven't brains enough
to lay a brick or use a trowel."
The victim of this outburst thought that the little detective had gone
mad, though the reference to Hendon Road had startled him, and a
scared expression had come into his eyes.
"Look here----" he began, but Furneaux checked him again instantly.
"I've looked at you long enough to sum you up as a sulky puppy," he
said. "If you had any sort of gumption you would realize that you
occupy a singularly precarious position. Were it not for the lucky
accident that my colleague and I were on the spot this morning it is
more than likely that the county police would have arrested you at
sight. Don't give us any more trouble, or you'll be left to stew in
your own juice. I have warned you, once and for all. If you care to
swallow your spleen and amend your manners, I shall try to believe you
are more idiot than knave. At present I am doubtful which way the
balance tips."
Furneaux stalked off rapidly, leaving the other to fume with
indignation as he followed. With his almost uncanny gift of
imaginative reasoning, the Jersey man had guessed the purport of
Fenley's talk with Sylvia in the garden. He had watched the two from
a window of the dining-room, and had read correctly the girl's
ill-concealed scorn, not quite devoid of dread, as revealed by face
and gesture. To make sure, he waylaid her in the hall while she was
hurrying to her own apartments. Then he sauntered after Robert Fenley,
and only bided his time to empty upon him the vials of his wrath.
He had taken the oaf's measure with a nice exactitude. To trounce him
without frightening him also was only inviting a complaint to the
Commissioner, but Furneaux was well aware that the longer Robert
Fenley's dull brain dwelt on the significance of that address in
Battersea being known to the police, the less ready would he be
to stir a hornets' nest into activity by showing his resentment.
Obviously, Furneaux's methods were not those advocated in the Police
Manual. Any other man who practiced them would risk dismissal, but the
"Little 'Un" of the Yard was a law unto himself.
Meanwhile, he was hurrying after the "Big 'Un," (such, it will be
recalled, were the respective nicknames Furneaux and Winter had
received in the Department) who had alighted from the car, and was
listening to Hilton Fenley berating a servant for having permitted
Trenholme to make known his presence to Miss Manning. The man,
however, protested that he had done nothing of the sort. Miss Sylvia
had been called to the lodge telephone, and the footman's acquaintance
with the facts went no farther. Smothering his annoyance as best he
could, Fenley rang up Mrs. Bates and asked for particulars. When the
woman explained what had happened, he rejoined Winter in the hall,
paying no heed to Furneaux, who was entering at the moment.
"That artist fellow who was trespassing in the park this morning--if
nothing worse is proved against him--must have a superb cheek," he
said angrily. "He actually had the impertinence to ask Miss Manning to
meet him, no doubt offering some plausible yarn as an excuse. I hope
you'll test his story thoroughly, Mr. Winter. At the least, he should
be forced to say what he was doing in these grounds at such an unusual
hour."
"He is putting himself right with Miss Manning now," broke in
Furneaux.
"Putting himself right with Miss Manning? What the deuce do you mean,
sir?" Fenley could snarl effectively when in the mood, and none might
deny his present state of irritation, be the cause what it might.
"That young lady is the only person to whom he owes an explanation. He
is giving it to her now."
"Will you kindly be more explicit?"
Furneaux glanced from his infuriated questioner to Winter, his face
one note of mild interrogation and non-comprehension.
"Really, Mr. Fenley, I have said the same thing in two different
ways," he cried. "As a rule I contrive to be tolerably lucid in my
remarks--don't I, Mr. Robert?" for the younger Fenley had just come
in.
"What's up now?" was Robert's non-committal answer.
For some reason his brother did not reply, but Furneaux suddenly grew
voluble.
"Of course, you haven't heard that an artist named Trenholme was
painting near the lake this morning when your father was killed," he
said. "Fortunately, he was there before and after the shot was fired.
He can prove, almost to a yard, the locality where the murderer was
concealed. In fact, he is coming here tomorrow, at my request, to go
over the ground with me.
"An interesting feature of the affair is that Mr. Trenholme is a
genius. I have never seen better work. One of his drawings, a water
color, has all the brilliancy and light of a David Cox, but another,
in oil, is a positive masterpiece. It must have been done in a few
minutes, because Miss Manning did not know he was sitting beneath the
cedars, and it is unreasonable to suppose that she would preserve the
same pose for any length of time--sufficiently long, that is----"
"Did the bounder paint a picture of Sylvia bathing?" broke in Robert,
his red face purple with rage.
"Allow me to remind you that you are speaking of a painter of
transcendent merit," said Furneaux suavely.
"When _I_ meet him I'll give him a damned good hiding."
"He's rather tall and strongly built."
"I don't care how big he is, I'll down him."
"Oh, stop this pothouse talk," put in Hilton, giving the blusterer a
contemptuous glance. "Mr. Furneaux, you seem primed with information.
Why should Mr. Trenholme, if that is his name, have the audacity to
call on Miss Manning? He might have the impudence to skulk among the
shrubs and watch a lady bathing, but I fail to see any motive for his
visit to The Towers this evening."
Furneaux shook his head. Evidently the point did not appeal to him.
"There is no set formula that expresses the artistic temperament," he
said. "The man who passes whole years in studying the nude is often
endowed with a very high moral sense. Mr. Trenholme, though carried
away by enthusiasm this morning, may be consumed with remorse tonight
if he imagines that the lady who formed the subject of his sketch is
likely to be distressed because of it.
"I fear I am to blame. I stopped Mr. Trenholme from destroying the
picture today. He meant burning it, since he had the sense to realize
that he would be summoned as a witness, not only at tomorrow's
inquest, but when the affair comes before the courts. I was bound
to point out that the drawings supplied his solitary excuse for being
in the locality at all. He saw that--unwillingly, it is true, but
with painful clearness--so I assume that his visit to Miss Manning
was expiatory, a sort of humble obeisance to a goddess whom he had
offended unwittingly. I assume, too, that his plea for mercy has not
proved wholly unsuccessful or Miss Manning would not now be walking
with him across the park."
"What!" roared Robert. He turned to the gaping footman, for the whole
conversation had taken place in the hall. "Which way did Miss Sylvia
go?" he cried.
"Down the avenue, sir," said the man. "I saw Miss Sylvia meet the
gentleman, and after some talk they went through the trees to the
right."
Robert raced off. Winter, who had not interfered hitherto, because
Furneaux always had a valid excuse for his indiscretions, made as if
he would follow and restrain the younger Fenley; but Furneaux caught
his eye and winked. That sufficed. The Superintendent contented
himself with gazing after Robert Fenley, who ran along the avenue
until clear of the Quarry Wood, when he, too, plunged through the
line of elms and was lost to sight.
Hilton watched his impetuous brother with a brooding underlook. He
still held in his hand a leather portfolio bulging with papers, some
of which he had placed there when Winter opened the door of the
railway coach in St. Pancras station. The footman offered to relieve
him of it, but was swept aside with a gesture.
"I have never known Robert so excited and erratic in his movements as
he has been today," he said at last. "I hope he will not engage in a
vulgar quarrel with this Mr. Trenholme, especially in Miss Manning's
presence."
Apparently he could not quite control his voice, in which a sense of
unctuous amusement revealed itself. Furneaux could not resist such an
opportunity. He had pierced Robert's thick skin; now he undertook a
more delicate operation.
"That would be doubly unfortunate," he said, chuckling quietly. "If I
am any judge of men, Mr. Robert Fenley would meet more than his match
in our artist friend, while he would certainly undo all the good
effect of an earlier and most serious and convincing conversation with
the young lady."
Hilton swung around on him.
"When did my brother return from London?" he asked.
"Shortly before five o'clock. He and Miss Manning had tea together,
and afterward strolled in the gardens. I don't wonder at any artist
wishing to sketch Miss Manning? Do you? If I may be allowed to say it,
I have never seen a more graceful and charming girl."
"May I inquire if you have made any progress in the particular inquiry
for which I brought you here?"
Hilton Fenley spoke savagely. He meant to be offensive, since the
innuendo was unmistakable. Apparently Furneaux's remarks had achieved
some hypodermic effect.
"Oh, yes," was the offhand answer. "I have every reason to believe
that Mr. Winter and I will make an arrest without undue loss of time."
"I am glad to hear it. Thus far your methods have not inspired the
confidence I, as a member of the public, was inclined to repose in
Scotland Yard. I am going to my rooms now, and dine at a quarter to
eight. About nine o'clock I wish to go into matters thoroughly with
Mr. Winter and you. At present, I think it only fair to say that I am
not satisfied with the measures, whatever they may be, you have seen
fit to adopt."
He seemed to await a retort, but none came, so he strode across the
hall and hurried up the stairs. Furneaux continued to gaze blankly
down the long, straight avenue, nor did he utter a word till a door
opened and closed on the first floor in the southeast corner.
Then he spoke.
"Some people are very hard to please," he said plaintively.
Winter beckoned to the footman.
"Do you mind asking Mr. Tomlinson if he can come here for a moment?"
he said. When the man disappeared he muttered--
"Why are you stroking everybody's fur the wrong way, Charles?"
"A useful simile, James. If they resemble cats we may see sparks, and
each of those young men has something of the tiger in him."
"But things have gone horribly wrong all day--after a highly promising
start, too. I don't see that we are any nearer laying hands on a
murderer because we have unearthed various little scandals in the
lives of Mortimer Fenley's sons. And what game are you playing with
this artist, Trenholme?"
"The supremely interesting problem just now is the game which he is
playing with Robert Fenley. If that young ass attacks him he'll get
the licking he wants, and if you're in any doubt about my
pronouns----"
"Oh, dash you and your pronouns! Here's Tomlinson. Quick! Have you a
plan of any sort?"
"Three! Three separate lines of attack, each deadly. But there are
folk whose mental equipment renders them incapable of understanding
plain English. Now, my friend Tomlinson will show you what I mean.
I'll ask him a simple question, and he will give you a perfect example
of a direct answer. Tomlinson, can you tell me what the extrados of a
voussoir is?"
"No, Mr. Furneaux, I can not," said the butler, smiling at what he
regarded as the little man's humor.
"There!" cried Furneaux delightedly. "Ain't I a prophet? No evasions
about Tomlinson, are there?"
"I think you're cracked," growled Winter, picking up his suitcase. "If
I'm to stay here tonight, I shall want a room of some sort. Mr.
Tomlinson, can you----"
"Share mine," broke in Furneaux. "I'm the quietest sleeper living. Our
friend here is sure to have at disposal a room with two beds in it."
"The principal guest room is unoccupied," said the butler.
"Where is it?"
"On the first floor, sir, facing south."
"Couldn't be better. The very thing. Ah! Here comes my baggage." And
the others saw a policeman bicycling up the avenue, with a small
portmanteau balanced precariously between the handlebars and the front
buttons of his tunic.
"You gentlemen will dine in my room, I hope?" said Tomlinson, when he
had escorted them upstairs.
"We are not invited to the family circle, at any rate," said Winter.
"Well, you will not suffer on that account," announced Tomlinson
genially. "Of course, I shall not have the pleasure of sharing the
meal with you, but dinner will be served at a quarter to eight. Mr.
Furneaux knows his way about the house, so, with your permission, I'll
leave you at present. If you're disengaged at nine thirty I'll be glad
to see you in my sanctum."
"Isn't he a gem?" cried Furneaux, when the door had closed, and he and
Winter were alone.
Winter sat down on the side of a bed. He was worried, and did not
strive to hide it. For the first time in his life he felt distrustful
of himself, and he suspected, too, that Furneaux was only covering
abject failure by a display of high spirits.
"Why so pensive an attitude, James?" inquired the other softly. "Are
you still wondering what the extrados of a voussoir is?"
"I don't care a tuppenny damn what it is."
"But that's where you're wrong. That's where you're crass and
pig-headed. The extrados of a voussoir----"
"Oh, kill it, and let it die happy----"
"--is the outer curve of a wedge-shaped stone used for building an
arch. Now, mark you, those are words of merit. Wedge, arch--wedges of
fact which shall construct the arch of evidence. We'll have our man
in the dock across that bridge before we are much older."
"Confound it, how? He couldn't be in his bedroom and in the Quarry
Wood, four hundred yards away, at one and the same moment."
Furneaux gazed fixedly at his friend's forehead, presumably the seat
of reason.
"Sometimes, James, you make me gasp with an amazed admiration," he
cooed. "You do, really. You arrive at the same conclusion as I, a
thinker, without any semblance of thought process on your part. How do
you manage it! Is it through association with me? You know, there's
such a thing as inductive electricity. A current passing through a
highly charged wire can excite another wire, even a common iron one,
without actual contact."
"I've had a rotten afternoon, and don't feel up to your far-fetched
jokes just now; so if you have nothing to report, shut up," said the
Superintendent crossly.
"Then I'll cheer your melancholy with a bit of real news brightened
by imagination," answered Furneaux promptly. "Hilton Fenley couldn't
have fired the rifle himself, except by certain bizarre means which I
shall lay before the court later; but he planned and contrived the
murder, down to the smallest detail. He wore Brother Robert's boots
when available; from appearances Brother Robert is now wearing the
identical pair which made those footprints we saw, but I shall know
in the morning, for that fiery young sprig obligingly left another
well-marked set of prints in the same place twenty minutes ago. When
circumstances compelled Hilton to walk that way in his own boots, he
slipped on two roughly made moccasins, which he burned last night,
having no further use for them. Therefore, he knew the murder would
take place this morning.
"I've secured shreds of the sacking out of which he made the pads to
cover his feet; and an under gardener remembers seeing Mr. Hilton
making off with an empty potato sack one day last week, and wondering
why he wanted it. During some mornings recently Hilton Fenley
breakfasted early and went out, but invariably had an excuse for not
accompanying his father to the City. He was then studying the details
of the crime, making sure that an expert, armed with a modern rifle,
could not possibly miss such a target as a man standing outside a
doorway, and elevated above the ground level by some five feet or
more.
"No servant could possibly observe that Mr. Hilton was wearing Mr.
Robert's boots, because they do not differ greatly in size; but
luckily for us, a criminal always commits an error of some sort, and
Hilton blundered badly when he made those careful imprints of his
brother's feet, as the weather has been fine recently, and the only
mud in this locality lies in that hollow of the Quarry Wood. It
happens that some particles of that identical mud were imbedded in the
carpet of Hilton Fenley's sitting-room. I'm sorry to have to say it,
because the housemaid is a nice girl."
"Never mind the housemaid. Go on."
"Exactly what the housemaid would remark if she heard me; only she
would giggle, and you look infernally serious. Next item: Hilton
Fenley, like most high-class scoundrels, has the nerves of a cat, with
all a cat's fiendish brutality. He could plan and carry out a callous
crime and lay a subtle trail which must lead to that cry baby, Robert,
but he was unable to control his emotions when he saw his father's
corpse. That is where the murderer nearly always fails. He can never
picture in death that which he hated and doomed in life. There is an
element in death----"
"Chuck it!" said Winter unfeelingly.
Furneaux winced, and affected to be deeply hurt.
"The worst feature of service in Scotland Yard is its demoralizing
effect on the finer sentiments," he said sadly. "Men lose all human
instincts when they become detectives or newspaper reporters. Now the
ordinary policeman ofttimes remains quite soft-hearted. For instance,
Police Constable Farrow, though preening himself on being the pivot on
which this case revolves, was much affected by Hilton Fenley's first
heart-broken words to him. 'Poor young gentleman,' said Farrow, when
we were discussing the affair this afternoon, 'he was cut up somethink
orful. I didn't think he had it in him, s'elp me, I didn't. Tole me to
act for the best. Said some one had fired a bullet which nearly tore
his father to pieces.'
"There was more of the same sort of thing, and I got Farrow to jot
down the very words in his notebook. Of course, he doesn't guess
why.... Now, I wonder how Hilton Fenley knew the effect of that bullet
on his father's body. The doctor had not arrived. There had been only
a superficial examination by Tomlinson of the orifice of the wound.
What other mind in Roxton would picture to itself the havoc caused by
an expanding bullet? The man who uttered those words _knew_ what sort
of bullet had been used. He _knew_ it would tear his father's body to
pieces. A neurotic imagination was at work, and that cry of horror was
the soul's unconscious protest against the very fiendishness of its
own deed....
"Oh, yes. Let these Fenleys quarrel about that girl, and we'll see
Hilton marching steadily toward the Old Bailey. Of course, we'll
assist him. We'll make certain he doesn't deviate or falter on the
road. But he'll follow it, and of his own accord; and the first long
stride will be taken when he goes to the Quarry Wood to retrieve the
rifle which lies hidden there."
Winter whistled softly. Then he looked at his watch.
"By Jove! Turned half past seven," he said.
"Ha!" cackled Furneaux. "James is himself again. We have hardly a
scrap of evidence, but that doesn't trouble our worthy Superintendent
a little bit, and he'll enjoy his dinner far better than he thought
possible ten minutes ago. _Sacre nom d'une pipe!_ By the time you've
tasted a bottle from Tomlinson's favorite bin you'll be preparing a
brief for the Treasury solicitor!"