THE CLOSE OF A TRAGEDY
Winter was in the Quarry Wood and feeling his way but trusting to
hands and feet when he heard, and soon saw, Furneaux and the two
constables coming toward him. The little detective held the electric
torch above his head, and was striding on without looking to right or
left. The bitterness of defeat was in his face. Life had turned to
gall and wormwood. As the expressive American phrase has it, he was
chewing mud.
The Superintendent smiled. He knew what torment his friend was
suffering.
"Hello, there!" he said gruffly, and the three men jumped, for their
nerves were on edge.
"Oh, it's you, Napoleon," yelped Furneaux. "Behold Soult and his army
corps, come to explain how Sir John Moore dodged him at Corunna."
"You've lost your man, then?"
"Botched the job at the moment of victory. And all through a rope
end."
"Tush! That isn't in your line."
"Must I be lashed by your wit, too? The rope was applied to me, not to
Fenley."
"You don't mean to say, sir," broke in one of the astounded policemen,
"that you think Mr. Hilton killed his own father!"
"Was it you who got that punch in the tummy?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, save your breath. You'll want it when the muscles stiffen.
_'Cre nom d'un pipe!_ To think that I, Furneaux of the Yard, should
queer the finest pitch I ever stood on."
"Oh, come now, Charles," said Winter. "Don't cry over spilt milk.
You'll catch Fenley all right before the weather changes. What really
happened?"
Aware of the paramount necessity of suppressing his personal woes,
Furneaux at once gave a graphic and succinct account of Fenley's
imminent capture and escape. He was scrupulously fair, and exonerated
his assistants from any share of the blame--if indeed any one could be
held accountable for the singular accident which precipitated matters
by a few vital seconds.
Had Fenley reached the ground before the torch revealed the
detective's presence, the latter would have closed with him instantly,
throwing the torch aside, and thus taking the prisoner at the
disadvantage which the fortune of war had brought to bear against the
law. Furneaux was wiry though slight, and he could certainly have held
his man until reenforcements came; nor would the constables' lamps
have been extinguished during the _melee_.
"Then he has vanished, rifle and all," said Winter, when Furneaux had
made an end.
"As though the earth had swallowed him. A thousand years ago it would
have done so," was the humiliated confession.
"None of you have any notion which direction he took?"
"_I_ received such a whack on the skull that I believe he disappeared
in fire," said Furneaux. "My friend here," turning to the policeman
who had voiced his amazement at the suggestion that Hilton Fenley was
a murderer, "was in the position of Bret Harte's negro lecturer on
geology, while this other stalwart thought he had been kicked by a
horse. We soon recovered, but had to grope for each other. Then I
called the heavens to witness that I was dished."
"That gave us a chance of salvage, anyhow," said Winter. "I 'phoned
the Roxton Inspector, and he will block the roads. When he has
communicated with St. Albans and some other centers we should have a
fairly wide net spread. Bates is coming from the lodge to take charge
of a search party to scour the woods. We want that rifle. He must have
dropped it somewhere. He'll make for a station in the early morning.
He daren't tramp the country without a hat and in a black suit."
Winter was trying to put heart into his colleague, but Furneaux was
not to be comforted. The truth was that the blow on the head had been
a very severe one. Unfortunately, he had changed his hard straw hat
for a soft cap which gave hardly any protection. Had Fenley's perch
been a few inches lower when he delivered that vindictive thrust,
Scotland Yard would probably have lost one of its most zealous
officers.
So the Jerseyman said nothing, having nothing to say that was fit for
the ears of the local constabulary, and Winter suggested that they
should return to the mansion and give Bates instructions. Then he,
Winter, would telephone Headquarters, have the main roads watched, and
the early Continental trains kept under surveillance.
Furneaux, torch in hand, at once led the way. Thus the party was
visible before it entered the avenue, and two young people who had
bridged months of ordinary acquaintance in one moment of tragedy,
being then on the roadway, saw the gleam of light and waited.
"Good!" cackled the little detective when his glance fell on them.
"I'm glad to see there's one live man in the bunch. I presume you've
disposed of Mr. Robert Fenley, Mr. Trenholme?"
"Yes," said the artist. "His affairs seem to be common property. His
brother evidently knew he was out of doors, and now you----"
Furneaux woke up at that.
"His brother! How can _you_ know what his brother knew?"
"Mr. Hilton Fenley saw Miss Manning and myself, and mistook me
for----"
"Saw you? When?"
"About five minutes ago, on the other side of the wood."
"What did he say? Quick!"
"He told us that the shooting was the outcome of your efforts to catch
some man hiding among the trees."
"Of my efforts?"
"He didn't mention you by name. The words he used were 'the police.'
He was taking part in the chase, I suppose."
"Which way did he go?"
Trenholme hesitated. Not only was he not quite conversant with the
locality, but his shrewd wits had reached a certain conclusion, and he
did not wish to be too outspoken before Sylvia. Surely she had borne
sufficient for one day.
Thereupon the girl herself broke in.
"Hilton went toward the cedars. He may be making for the Easton gate.
Have you caught any man?"
"Not yet, Miss Manning," said Winter, assuming control of the
situation with a firm hand. "I advise you to go straight to your
room, and not stir out again tonight. There will be no more
disturbance--I promise you that."
Even the chief of the C. I. D. can err when he prophesies. At that
instant the two lines of trees lost their impenetrable blackness.
Their foliage sprang into red-tinted life as if the witches of the
Brocken had chosen a new meeting-place, and a crackling, tearing sound
rent the air.
"Oh!" screamed Sylvia, who chanced to be facing the mansion. "The
house is on fire!"
They were standing in a group, almost where Police Constable Farrow
had stood at ten minutes past ten the previous morning. Hence they
were aware of this addition to the day's horrors before the house
servants, who, headed by Tomlinson, were gathered on and near the
flight of steps at the entrance. Every female servant in the
establishment was there as well, not outside the door, but quaking in
the hall. MacBain was the first among the men to realize what was
happening. He caught the loud clang of an automatic fire alarm ringing
in his room, and at once called the house fire brigade to run out the
hose while he dashed upstairs into the north corridor, from which a
volume of smoke was pouring.
"Good Heavens!" he cried, on reaching the cross gallery. "It's in Mr.
Fenley's rooms!"
Mr. Fenley's rooms! No need to tell the horrified staff which rooms he
meant. A fire was raging in the private suite of the dead man!
The residence was singularly well equipped with fire-extinguishing
appliances. Mortimer Fenley had seen to that. Hand grenades, producing
carbonic acid gas generated by mixing water with acid and alkali,
were stored in convenient places, and there was a plentiful supply of
water from many hose pipes. The north and south galleries looked on
to an internal courtyard, so there was every chance of isolating
the outbreak if it were tackled vigorously; and no fault could be
found with either the spirit or training of the amateur brigade.
Consequently, only two rooms, a bedroom and adjoining dressing-room,
were well alight; these were burned out completely. A sitting-room on
one side was badly scorched, as was a spare room on the other; but the
men soon knew that they had checked the further progress of the
flames, and were speculating, while they worked, as to the cause of a
fire originating in a set of empty apartments, when Parker, Mrs.
Fenley's personal attendant, came sobbing and distraught to Sylvia.
"Oh, miss!" she cried. "Oh, miss! Where is your aunt?"
"Isn't Mrs. Fenley in her room?" asked the girl, yielding to a sense
of neglect in not having gone to see if Mrs. Fenley was alarmed,
though the older woman was not in the slightest danger. The two main
sections of the building were separated by an open space of forty
feet, and The Towers had exceedingly thick walls.
"No, miss. I can't find her anywhere!" said the woman, well aware that
if any one was at fault it was herself. "You know when I saw you. I
went back then, and she was sleeping, so I thought I could leave her
safely. Oh, miss, what has become of her? Maybe she was aroused by the
shooting!"
All hands that could be spared from the fire-fighting operations
engaged instantly in an active search, but there was no clue to Mrs.
Fenley's disappearance beyond an open door and a missing night light.
The electric current was shut off at the main at midnight, except on a
special circuit communicating with the hall, the courtyard, and
MacBain's den, where he had control of these things.
High and low they hunted without avail, until MacBain himself stumbled
over a calcinated body in the murdered banker's bedroom. The poor
creature had waked to some sense of disaster. Vague memories of the
morning's horror had led her, night light in hand, to the spot where
she fancied she would find the one person on earth in whom she placed
confidence, for Mortimer Fenley had always treated her with kindness,
even if his methods were not in accord with the commonly accepted
moral code.
Presumably, on discovering that the rooms were empty, some further
glimmering knowledge had stirred her benumbed consciousness. She may
have flung herself on the bed in a paroxysm of weeping, heedless of
the overturned night light and the havoc it caused. That, of course,
is sheer guesswork, though the glass dish which held the light was
found later on the charred floor, which was protected, to some extent,
by a thick carpet.
At any rate, she had not long survived the husband who had given her a
pomp and circumstance for which she was ill fitted. They were buried
in the same grave, and Hertfordshire sent its thousands to the
funeral.
Soon after her fate became known, Winter wanted Furneaux, but his
colleague was not in the house. The telephone having broken down,
owing to the collapse of a standard, and the necessity of subduing the
fire having put a stop to any immediate search being made in the park,
Winter thought that the pair of them would be better employed if they
transferred their energies to the local police station.
He found Furneaux seated on the lowermost step at the entrance; the
Jerseyman was crying as if his heart would break, and Trenholme was
trying to comfort him, but in vain.
"What's up now?" inquired the Superintendent, thinking at the moment
that his friend and comrade was giving way to hysteria indirectly
owing to the blow he had received.
Furneaux looked up. It was the darkest hour of the night, and his
chief could not see the distraught features wrung with pain.
"James," he said, mastering his voice by a fierce effort, "my mad
antics killed that unfortunate woman! She was aroused by the shots.
She would cry for help, and none came. Heavens! I can hear her now!
Then she ran for refuge to the man who had been everything to her
since she was a barrack room kid in India. I'm done, old fellow. I
resign. I can never show my face in the Yard again."
"It'll do you a world of good if you talk," said Winter, meaning to
console, but unconsciously wounding by cruel sarcasm.
"I'll be dumb enough after this night's work," said Furneaux, in a
tone of such utter dejection that Winter began to take him seriously.
"If you fail me now, Charles," he said, and his utterance was thick
with anger at the crassness of things, "I'll consider the advisability
of sending in my own papers. Dash it!" He said something quite
different, but his friends may read this record, and they would
repudiate an exact version with scorn and disbelief. "Are we going to
admit ourselves beaten by a half-bred hound like Hilton Fenley? Not
if I know it, or I know you. We've got the noose 'round his neck, and
you and I will pull it tight if we have to follow him to----"
"Pardon the interruption, gentlemen," said a voice. "I was called out
o' bed to come to the fire, an' took a short cut across the park. Blow
me if I didn't kick my foot against this!"
And Police Constable Farrow, who had approached unnoticed, held out
an object which seemed to be a rifle. Owing to his being seated
Furneaux's eyes were on a level with it, and he could see more clearly
than the others. He struck a match; then there could be no doubt that
the policeman had actually picked up the weapon which had set in
motion so many and such varied vicissitudes.
But Farrow had more to say. It had been his happy lot during many
hours to figure bravely in the Fenley case, and he carried himself
as a valiant man and true to the end.
"I think I heard you mention Mr. Hilton," he went on. "I met Dr. Stern
in the village, an' he tol' me Mr. Hilton had borrowed his car."
Furneaux stood up.
"Continue, Solomon," he said, and Winter sighed with relief; the
little man was himself again.
"That's all, gentlemen, or practically all. It struck me as unusual,
but Dr. Stern said Mr. Hilton's motor was out o' gear, an' he wanted
a car in a desp'rit hurry."
"He did, indeed!" growled Furneaux. "You're quite sure there is no
mistake?"
"Mistake, sir? How could there be? The doctor was walkin' home. That's
an unusual thing. He never walks a yard if he can help it. Mr. Hilton
borrowed the car to go to St. Albans."
"Did he, indeed? Just how did he come to find the car waiting for
him?"
"Oh, that's the queer part of it. Dr. Stern is lookin' after poor old
Joe Bland, who's mighty bad with--there, now, if I haven't gone and
forgotten the name; something-itis--and Mr. Hilton must have seen the
car standin' outside Bland's house. But what was he doin' in Roxton at
arf past twelve? That's wot beats me. And then, just fancy me stubbin'
my toe against this!"
Again he displayed the rifle as if it were an exhibit and he were
giving evidence.
"Let's go inside and get a light," said Winter, and the four mounted
the steps into the hall. Robert Fenley was there--red-faced as ever,
for he had helped in putting out the fire, but quite sober, since he
had been very sick.
Some lamps and candles gave a fair amount of light, and Robert eyed
Trenholme viciously.
"So it was you!" he said. "I thought it was. Well, my father and
mother are both dead, and this is no time for settlin' matters; but
I'll look you up when this business is all over."
"If you do, you'll get hurt," said Winter brusquely. "Is that your
rifle?" and he pointed to the weapon in Farrow's hands.
"Yes. Where was it found?"
"In the Quarry Wood, sir, but a'most in the park," said the policeman.
"Has it been used recently?"
Fenley could hardly have put a question better calculated to prove his
own innocence of any complicity in the crime.
Winter took the gun, meaning to open the breech, but he and Furneaux
simultaneously noticed a bit of black thread tied to one of the
triggers. It had been broken, and the two loose ends were some inches
in length.
"That settles it," muttered Furneaux. "The scoundrel fixed it to a
thick branch, aimed it carefully on more than one occasion--look at
the sights, set for four hundred yards--and fired it by pulling a cord
from his bedroom window when he saw his father occupying the exact
position where the sighting practiced on Monday and Tuesday showed
that a fatal wound would be inflicted. The remaining length of cord
was stronger than this packing thread, which was bound to give way
first when force was applied.... Well, that side of the question
didn't bother us much, did it, Winter?"
"May I ask who you're talking about?" inquired Robert Fenley hoarsely.
"About that precious rogue, your half brother," was the answer. "That
is why he went to his bedroom, one window of which looks out on the
park and the other on the east front, where he watched his father
standing to light a cigar before entering the motor. He laid the cord
before breakfast, knowing that Miss Manning's habit of bathing in the
lake would keep gardeners and others from that part of the grounds.
When the shot was fired he pulled in the cord----"
"I saw him doing that," interrupted Trenholme, who, after one glance
at the signs of his handiwork on Robert Fenley's left jaw, had devoted
his attention to the extraordinary story revealed by the detectives.
"You _saw_ him!" And Furneaux wheeled round in sudden wrath. "Why the
deuce didn't you tell me that?"
"You never asked me."
"How could I ask you such a thing? Am I a necromancer, a wizard, or
eke a thought reader?"
Trenholme favored the vexed little man with a contemplative look.
"I think you are all those, and a jolly clever art critic as well," he
said.
Furneaux was discomfited, and Winter nearly laughed. But the matter at
issue was too important to be treated with levity.
"Tell us now what you saw, Mr. Trenholme," he said.
"When the shot was fired, I recognized it as coming from a
high-velocity rifle," said the artist. "I was surprised that such a
weapon should be used in an enclosed park of this nature, and looked
toward the house to discover whether or not any heed would be given to
the incident there. From where I was seated I could see the whole of
the south front, but not the east side, where the brass fittings of
the automobile alone were visible, glinting through and slightly above
a yew hedge.
"Now, when Miss Manning returned to the house and entered by way of a
window on the ground floor, I noticed that no other window was open.
But after the report of the gun, I saw the end window of the first
floor on the southeast side slightly raised--say six inches; and some
one in the room was, as I regarded it, gesticulating, or making signs.
That continued nearly half a minute and then ceased. I don't know
whether the person behind the glass was a man or a woman, but some one
was there, and engaged in the way I have described. If your theory is
correct, the motions would be precisely those you suggest, similar to
those of a fisherman reeling in a line."
"Your simile happens to be exact," said Winter. "While Hilton Fenley
and my friend here were having a dust-up in the Quarry Wood I searched
his rooms; and among other things I came upon a salmon reel carrying
an exceptional quantity of line. So our case is fairly complete. I'm
sorry to have to inform you, Mr. Fenley, that not only did your half
brother kill your father, but he tried his level best to put the crime
on your shoulders.
"He overreached himself in sending for Scotland Yard men. We have seen
too much of the seamy side of life to accept as Gospel truth the first
story we hear. The very fact that Hilton Fenley was attacking you in
your absence prejudiced us against him at the outset. There were other
matters, which I need not go into now, which converted our dislike
into active suspicion.
"But it is only fair that you should understand how narrow was your
escape from arrest. Had the local police been in sole charge I am
bound to say you would have passed this night in a cell. Luckily for
you, Mr. Furneaux and I set our faces against the notion of your guilt
from the beginning. Long before we saw you, we were keeping an eye on
the real criminal. When you did appear, your conduct only confirmed
our belief in your innocence."
"I told you why, you will remember," piped Furneaux.
But Robert Fenley said no word. He was stunned. He began to feel ill
again, and made for his room. Sylvia had not been seen since she heard
of Mrs. Fenley's death. The detectives collected their belongings,
which with the gun and a bag packed with various articles taken from
Hilton Fenley's suite--the reel, for instance, a suit of clothes
bearing marks, possibly of moss, and the leather portfolio of
papers--were entrusted to Farrow and another constable for safe
conveyance. Accompanied by Trenholme, they walked to Easton. On the
way the artist supplied sufficient details of his two meetings with
Sylvia to put them in possession of the main incidents. Furneaux,
though suffering from a splitting headache, had recovered the use of a
vinegary tongue.
"I was mistaken in you," he chuckled. "You're a rank impressionist.
Indeed, you're a neo-impressionist, a get-busy-and-do-it-now master of
art.... But she's a mighty nice girl, isn't she?"
"Meaning Miss Manning?" said Trenholme coldly.
"No. Eliza."
"Sorry. I misunderstood."
"_'Cre nom!_ You've got it bad."
"Got what bad?"
"The matrimonial measles. You're sickening for them now. One of the
worst symptoms in the man is his curt refusal to permit anybody else
to admire one bright particular star of womanhood. If the girl hears
another girl gushing over the young man, she's ready to scratch her
eyes out. By Jove! It'll be many a day before you forget your visit to
Roxton Park this morning, or yesterday morning, or whenever it was.
"I'm mixed. Life has been very strenuous during the past fifteen
hours. If you love me, James, put my poor head under a pump, or I'll
be dreaming that our lightning sketch performer here, long John
Trenholme, late candidate for the P. R. A., but now devoted to the
cult of Hymen, is going to marry Eliza, of the White Horse, and that
the fair Sylvia is pledged to cook us a dinner tomorrow night--or is
it tonight? Oh, Gemini, how my head aches!"
"Don't mind a word he's saying, Mr. Trenholme," put in Winter. "Hilton
Fenley hit him a smack with that rifle, and it developed certain
cracks already well marked. But he's a marvelously 'cute little codger
when you make due allowance for his peculiar ways, and he has a queer
trick of guessing at future events with an accuracy which has
surprised me more times than I can keep track of."
Trenholme was too good a fellow not to put up with a little mild chaff
of that sort. He looked at the horizon, where the faint streaks of
another dawn were beginning to show in the northeast.
"Please God," he said piously, "if I'm deemed worthy of such a boon,
I'll marry Sylvia Manning, or no other woman. And, when the chance
offers, Eliza of the White Horse shall cook you a dinner to make your
mouth water. Thus will Mr. Furneaux's dream come true, because dreams
go by contraries!"