THE FINDING OF THE BODY.
Scared by the fearful intensity of the storm, all the people flocked
away from Longbridge regatta, those who could manage to find room
there hurrying in to the single inn the place possessed, while, of
those who could not, some invaded the houseboats along the bank, and
others, more bold, and in reality more wise, made the best of a bad
business and started for home. Among these last were Ralph and
Gwendolen. He wrapped her up as well as circumstances allowed, and
then, cramming his cap upon his head and seizing his punt pole, began
to work for all he was worth. Gwendolen did not speak. She was not
a little frightened by the lightning, which appeared to flash
backwards and forwards between the earth and sky, and there seemed
every chance that the racing punt in which they were would be
swamped; not that she could have got much wetter if it were; the rain
was thrashing the river and flooding the punt and she was already
drenched to the skin, but, at any rate, she was speeding towards
shelter and dry clothes.
Behind her Ralph was straining every nerve. His thin cashmere shirt
clinging damply to him showed every muscle on his chest and
shoulders, and his arms, bare to the elbows, shone with the wet, the
sinews standing out like cords. He, too, was nervous on her account,
and breathed a prayer of gratitude as after each blinding shaft of
lightning he found her still unhurt. With set jaws and stern eyes he
used all his skill and strength, taking advantage of his thorough
knowledge of the river to find the best course for the punt, and
listening with a grim satisfaction to the water slapping underneath
his feet.
He must have covered the three miles from Longbridge in record time,
and of the crowd of boats that hurried down the stream but few
succeeded in outstripping him. As he came to the Manor House he shot
the punt dexterously alongside of his houseboat, and, jumping on to
it, helped Gwendolen to alight.
"Don't be afraid, dear," he shouted, making himself heard with
difficulty against a crashing peal of thunder; "run home and change
your things at once."
"And you?" she called back to him.
"I will take the punt into the boathouse and wait there. I have
plenty of dry things in the dressing-room. I'll change and come up
when the storm is over."
He handed her down the gangway, and stood for a moment watching her
as she sped across the lawn. Once at The Grange he knew she would be
all right; a fond mother and devoted servants would have prepared a
cheerful fire and warm garments for her as soon as they saw the
persistency of the rain, and afternoon tea would soon restore her
equanimity. Then he got back into the punt and took it round the
bend into the creek.
He stepped ashore and, laying the soaked cushions under the shelter
of the verandah, tipped up the punt to empty it of the water it had
shipped, drew it up into the boat-house, and went into the
dressing-room. It was a well-appointed place, with every convenience
for men who take their boating seriously. In one corner stood a
shower bath, and against it a full-size bath supplied with hot water
by a lightning geyser. Divesting himself of his dripping flannels,
he lighted the lamp in the geyser and employed the few minutes
intervening before it should get warm by rubbing himself down. Then
he had a bath, followed by a cold douche, and again rubbed himself
with rough towels until he glowed with warmth. From a big press in
another corner he took a clean shirt and socks and a spotless suit of
flannels, and, finally, feeling splendidly fit and comfortable,
turned towards the inner room, meaning to have a cigarette and some
spirits, and wait there until the fury of the tempest should abate.
"Suppose Sir Geoffrey was here when the storm broke," he thought, as
he saw the open windows, "and thought he would be safer in the house.
It was careless of him not to shut the windows; those curtains are
simply drenched!"
He closed the window overlooking the creek and turned to cross to
those that opened on to the grounds, but as he walked round the table
that filled the centre of the room a cry rang from his lips, for
prone upon the floor Sir Geoffrey lay, and something in the utter
helplessness of the posture of the body told Ralph that he was dead.
"Good God!" he cried, and in an instant dropped on his knees by the
side of the still figure, conquering by an immense effort a feeling
of positive repugnance against touching death. He felt his uncle's
wrist to see if he could detect a pulse, and uttered another
exclamation of horror when, on letting go the dead hand, it dropped
with a thud upon the floor.
"Uncle Geoffrey!" he called; "Uncle Geoffrey!" but no answer came;
there was not a quiver in the lids that bagged over the already
glazing eyes.
Perhaps it was his own lack of skill that prevented him from feeling
the pulse; there could scarcely be any room for doubt if he felt the
heart. Sir Geoffrey was lying on his left side, and Ralph rolled the
body on to its back and unfastened the flannel collar. Again the
horror of it all shook him, and he turned his head aside as he
slipped his hand inside his uncle's shirt. The body was quite warm,
and Ralph's pluck was returning with his hope, when his fingers fell
upon the little wound and became sticky with blood; in a frenzy of
terror he tore open the shirt and forced himself to look. A sob
shook his whole frame.
"It is murder! it is murder! Dear God, don't let him be dead!" but
the singed flannel, the tiny hole in the centre of a ring of scorched
flesh, and the absence of blood in any quantity, told a tale he could
not but believe. Yet he must try to recall some glimmer of
consciousness before he could leave the old man alone. He poured
some brandy into a tumbler, and raising Sir Geoffrey's head put a
little into the mouth that lolled open and gave the face an almost
idiotic expression; but the brandy merely dribbled out from the
corners of the lips, and there was no sign of meaning in the eyes.
Not knowing what else to do, Ralph raised Sir Geoffrey's body to lay
it on the bamboo couch, but, strong as he was, he only did it with
the utmost difficulty, and in making the effort he smeared his
sleeves and breast with blood.
"What can I do?" he kept on muttering, and yet, oddly enough, the
idea of rushing to the house and sending for the nearest doctor never
entered his mind. In a hopeless, incapable way he stared about him,
wondering what else he could do to recall the life he yet felt sure
had flown, and then, draining the tumbler which he had partly filled,
he closed the French windows and went back to his dressing-room. He
took off his blood-stained jacket and flung it down by the press,
washed the blood from his hands, and found another coat; and then,
locking the boat-house door, rushed out into the verandah, and so
into the garden, and stumbled to the house.
Going into the library he rang the bell, and strode impatiently up
and down until a servant came.
"Where is Martin? I want Martin. Send Martin here at once," he said
rapidly to the maid who, to his surprise, appeared in place of the
old butler.
She stared at him in astonishment and some dismay, for he was white
as death himself, and all his wonted quietness of manner was gone.
"He's only just got back from Longbridge, sir," the maid replied,
"and he's in his room changing his clothes; they've all got dripping
wet."
"Tell him I want him at once--at once," said Ralph, and, eyeing him
curiously, the girl hurried downstairs.
"Mr. Ralph wants you in the library directly minute," she called to
Martin through his door. "He's rarely put out about something.
Gracious! there's the bell again."
"Say I'll be up in a minute," Martin called back.
"But I daren't go back," the servant said. "I'm sure something
terrible's the matter. He looks as white as white, and spoke to me
as never was."
Martin would have delivered himself of a kindly admonition to the
girl to mend her manner of speech, but yet another peal of the bell
convinced him that something was indeed amiss, and giving a tug at
his tie to make it assume some semblance of a bow, he hurried out of
his bedroom and up the stairs, putting on his coat and waistcoat as
he went.
"Beg your pardon, Mr. Ralph, for keeping you waiting," he began, but
a glance at Ralph's face checked the apologies. "What is the matter,
sir? Has there been an accident? Miss Gwendolen----?"
"It's Sir Geoffrey," Ralph replied, hoarsely.
"Not dead?" the butler cried, stepping forward with outstretched
hands.
"Yes, dead," answered Ralph. "Murdered, foully murdered in his own
home."
Martin reeled against the writing table and stared in horror at
Ralph. Ralph, in his turn, gave way, and leaning his arm upon the
mantelpiece hid his face and ground his teeth to keep back the tears.
So they remained in silence, while the tall clock hammered out the
seconds of the time that for its owner had ceased to be.
"Where?" whispered Martin.
Ralph jerked his head in motion to the window.
"In the boathouse," he said.
He seemed incapable of doing anything practical, and Martin rose to
the occasion.
"You are sure it is--all over? Quite sure that he is dead?"
"Someone has shot him through the heart," said Ralph, in cold and
measured tones.
Martin wiped his eyes.
"Perhaps there is a chance. God grant there may be! Will you run
for the doctor, sir, while I go down to him? I'll just tell the
housekeeper to get Sir Geoffrey's room in order and have the young
servants out of the way, and I'll be at the boathouse with some of
the men to carry him home. The poor master!"
Ralph did as he was bid, glad to accept a subordinate place, and
Martin, with tears running down his cheeks, hastened to give his
instructions to the housekeeper. Then, taking some cushions from the
servants' hall, he hurried into the stables to summon help; a couple
of long shutters were procured to serve as a litter presently, and in
a few minutes the group of awestruck men reached the scene of the
tragedy.
It was while they were waiting for Ralph to come with the doctor and
bring the key of the boathouse that the necessity of calling in the
police occurred to Martin.
"Run up to the police-station," he said to one of the stable boys,
"and ask the inspector to come down with you sharp. Whether Sir
Geoffrey is dead or not we won't lose any time in putting the police
on the scoundrel's track. Go straight up and come straight back, and
don't get talking to anybody else. We don't want all the town
swarming down here."
The storm was dying. Rain still fell and thunder still rumbled in
the distance, but the heavy atmospheric oppression was gone, and bird
life was beginning to make itself audible again. In silence the men
waited under the verandah for the doctor, from whose advent they
still hoped for some relief. Presently he came, grave and with lips
compressed, for he knew and loved Sir Geoffrey. Ralph came, too,
even more haggard than before, and unlocking the door led the way
into the inner room. But although the doctor seemed to the
bystanders, in their anxiety, to take a long time over his
examination, the first glance had in reality been enough to satisfy
his trained eye that Sir Geoffrey was beyond all human aid. As he
turned to Ralph and sorrowfully shook his head, the police
superintendent walked swiftly and quietly into the room, and looked
first at the body and then at the doctor.
"Is it all over, sir?"
"All over," said the doctor very sadly. "If I had been here at the
time I could have done nothing. This is a matter for you, inspector."
The inspector looked at the tell-tale mark upon the shirt where the
flame had scorched it, and then looked inquiringly at the doctor.
"Yes," said the doctor, understanding the unspoken question; "it is
murder."
The inspector turned away.
"Who found the body?"
"I did," Ralph replied.
"Then with your permission I will come up to the house when I have
just looked round and locked up the place," the inspector said, and
Ralph went out with the doctor. Thus left in command, the
inspector's manner changed. He cleared the room of all save Martin
Somers, and carefully noted all the little details: the closed
windows, the position of the furniture, the empty tumbler on the
table. In the dressing-room he saw the water in the basin just
stained with blood, and in the corner by the press the blood-stained
shirt and jacket which Ralph had just changed, his wet sweater and
blazer and soaked flannel trousers hanging upon the side of the big
bath where he had left them to dry. Next, the inspector made a
careful search all round the boathouse, but the almost tropical rain
had obliterated all footsteps, and no clue remained outside. When he
at length was satisfied, he summoned the stablemen, and, improvising
a litter of the two shutters, lashed together across the boathooks
from the canoe, they reverently laid Sir Geoffrey's body on it and
bore all that remained of the fine old gentleman back to the
beautiful home of which he had been so proud and beloved a master.