happened? For that's the way, Mr. Cromarty, to get at the fac's; you
just exclude what's not possible and what remains is the truth. If you'd
read----"
"Well, come on. What's your theory now?"
"Just that Sir Reginald backed away from the door with the man after
him, till he got to the table. And then down went him and the table
together."
"And why didn't he cry out or raise the alarm in some way while he was
backing away?"
"God, but that fits into my other deductions fine!" cried Bisset. "I
hadna thought of that. Just wait, sir, till you see how the case is
going to hang together in a minute."
"But how did Sir Reginald's body come to be lying near the door?"
The philosopher seemed to be inspired afresh.
"The man clearly meant to take it away and hide it somewhere--that'll be
just it! And then he found it ower heavy and decided to leave it after
all."
"And who was this man?"
"That's precisely where proper principles, Mr. Cromarty, lead to a
number of vera interesting and instructive discoveries, and I think
ye'll see, sir, that the noose is on the road to his neck already. I've
not got the actual man, mind! In fac' I've no idea who he is, but I can
tell you a good few things about him--enough, in fac', to make escape
practically impossible. In the first place, he was one well acquaint
with the ways of the house. Is that not a fair deduction, sir?"
"Sure!" said Ned. "I've put my bottom dollar on that already."
"He came from inside this house and not outside it. How long he'd been
in the house, that I cannot say, but my own deductions are he'd been in
the house waiting for his chance for a good while before the master
heard him at yon door. Is that not a fair deduction too, sir?"
"It's possible," said Ned, though not with great conviction.
"And now here's a point that accounts for Sir Reginald giving no
alarm--Sir Reginald knew the man and couldna believe he meant
mischief!"
Ned looked at him quickly and curiously.
"Well?" said he.
"Is that not a fair deduction, Mr. Cromarty?"
"Seems to fill the bill."
"And now, here's a few personal details. Yon man was a fair active
strong man to have dealt with the master the way he did. But he was not
strong enough to carry off the corp like a sack of potatoes; he was no a
great muckle big giant, that's to say. And finally, calculating from the
distance the body was from the door and the number of steps he would be
likely to take to the door, and sae arriving at his stride and deducing
his height accordingly, he'd be as near as may be five feet nine inches
tall. Now, sir, me and you ought to get him with a' that known!"
Ned Cromarty looked at him with a curious gleam in his eye.
"What's your own height, Bisset?" he enquired.
"Five feet nine inches," said the reasoner promptly, and then suddenly
his mouth fell open but his voice ceased.
"And now," pursued Ned with a grimly humorous look, "can you not think
of a man just that height, pretty hefty but not a giant, who was
certainly in the house last night, who knew all the ways of it, and who
would never have been suspected by Sir Reginald of meaning mischief?"
"God!" exclaimed the unfortunate reasoner. "I've proved it was mysel'!"
"Well, and what shall I do--string you up now or hand you over to the
police?"
"But, Mr. Cromarty--you don't believe that's right surely?"
Tragic though the occasion was, Ned could not refrain from one brief
laugh. And then his face set hard again and he said:
"No, Bisset, I do not believe it was you. In fact, I wouldn't believe it
was you if you confessed to it. But I'd advise you not to go spreading
your deductions abroad! Deduction's a game that wants a bit more
practice than you or I have had."
It is possible that James Bisset had never looked quite so crestfallen
in his life.
"Then that's all nonsense I've been talking, sir?" he said lugubriously.
"No," said Ned emphatically. "I'll not say that either. You've brought
out some good points--that broken table, the place the body was found,
the possible reason why Sir Reginald gave no alarm; seems to me those
have something to them. But what they mean--what to conclude; we're as
far off that, Bisset, as ever!"
The philosopher's self esteem was evidently returning as fast as it had
gone.
"Then you wouldn't think there would be any harm, sir, in my continuing
my investigations?"
"On your present lines, the only harm is likely to be to yourself. Keep
at it--but don't hang yourself accidentally. And let me know if you
discover anything else--mind that."
"I'll mind on it, no fears, Mr. Cromarty!"
Ned left him with an expression on his countenance which indicated that
the deductive process had already been resumed.
Till he arrived at his own door, the laird of Stanesland was unconscious
of a single incident of his drive home. All the way his eye stared
straight into space. Sometimes a gleam would light it for an instant,
and then he would shake his head and the gleam would fade away.
"I can see neither a damned head nor a damned tail to it!" he said to
himself as he alighted.
XIV
THE QUESTION OF MOTIVE
Two days later Mr. Ison entered Mr. Simon Rattar's room and informed him
that Mr. Cromarty of Stanesland wished to see him on particular
business. The lawyer was busy and this interruption seemed for the
moment distinctly unwelcome. Then he grunted:
"Show him in."
In the minute or two that passed before the laird's entrance, Simon
seemed to be thinking intently and finally to come to a decision, which,
to judge from his reception of his client, was on rather different lines
from his first thoughts when Mr. Cromarty's name was announced. To
describe Simon Rattar at any time as genial would be an exaggeration,
but he showed his nearest approach to geniality as he bade his client
good-morning.
"Sorry to interrupt you," said Ned, "but I can't get this business out
of my head, night or day. Whether you want me or not, I've got to play a
hand in this game; but it's on your side, Mr. Rattar, and maybe I might
be able to help a little if I could get something to go on."
The lawyer nodded.
"I quite understand. Glad to have your help, Mr. Cromarty. Dreadful
affair. We're all trying to get to the bottom of it, I can assure you."
"I believe you," said Ned. "There never was a man better worth avenging
than Sir Reginald."
"Quite so," said Simon briefly, his eyes fixed on the other's face.
"Any fresh facts?"
Simon drew a sheet of paper from his desk.
"Superintendent Sutherland has given me a note of three--for what they
are worth, discovered by the butler. The first is about that table. It
seems a leg has been broken."
"Bisset told me that before I left the house."
"And thought it was an important fact, I suppose?"
"What its importance is, it's hard to say, but it's a fact, and seems to
me well worth noting."
"It is noted," said the Procurator Fiscal drily. "But I can't see that
it leads anywhere."
"Bisset maintains it implies Sir Reginald fell over it when he was
struck down; and that seems to me pretty likely."
Simon shook his head.
"How do we know Sir Reginald hadn't broken it himself previously and
then set it up against the wall--assuming it ever stood anywhere else,
which seems to want confirmation?"
"A dashed thin suggestion!" said Ned. "However, what are the other
discoveries?"
"The second is that one or two small fragments of dried mud were found
under the edge of the curtain, and the third is that the hearth brush
was placed in an unusual position--according to Bisset."
"And what are Bisset's conclusions?"
"That the man, whoever he was, had brought mud into the room and then
swept it up with the hearth brush; these fragments being pieces that he
had swept accidentally under the curtain and so overlooked."
"Good for Bisset!" exclaimed Ned. "He has got there this time, I do
believe."
Simon smiled sceptically.
"Sir Reginald was in the library in his walking boots that afternoon.
Naturally he would leave mud, and quite likely he swept it up himself
then, though the only evidence of sweeping is Bisset's statement about
the brush. And what proof is that of anything? Does your hearth brush
always stay in the same position?"
"Never noticed," said Ned.
"And I don't believe anybody notices sufficiently closely to make their
evidence on such a point worth a rap!" said Simon.
"A servant would."
"Well, Mr. Cromarty, make the most of the hearth brush then."
There seemed for an instant to be a defiant note in the Procurator
Fiscal's voice that made Ned glance at him sharply. But he saw nothing
in his face but the same set and steady look.
"We're on the same side in this racket, Mr. Rattar," said Ned. "I'm
only trying to help--same as you."
Simon's voice seemed now to have exactly the opposite note. For him, his
tone of acquiescence was even eager.
"Quite so; quite so, Mr. Cromarty. We are acting together; exactly."
"That's all the new evidence then?"
Simon nodded, and a few moments of silence followed.
"Tell me honestly," demanded Ned at last, "have you actually no clue at
all? No suspicion of any kind? Haven't you got on the track of any
possible reason for the deed?"
"Reason?" repeated Simon. "Now we come to business, Mr. Cromarty. What's
the motive? That's the point."
"Have you found one?"
Simon looked judicially discreet.
"At this moment all I can tell you is to answer the question: 'Who
benefits by Sir Reginald Cromarty's death?'"
"Well--who did? Seems to me every one who knew him suffered."
"Sentimentally perhaps--but not financially."
Ned looked at him in silence, as if an entirely new point of view were
dawning on his mind. But he compressed his lips and merely asked:
"Well?"
"To begin with, nothing was stolen from the house. Therefore no outside
thief or burglar gained anything. I may add also that the police have
made enquiries throughout the whole county, and no bad characters are
known to be in the place. Therefore there is no ground for supposing the
deed was the work of a robber, and to my mind, no evidence worth
considering to support that view. The only people that gained anything,
Mr. Cromarty, are those who will benefit under Sir Reginald's will."
Cromarty's expression did not change again. This was evidently the new
point of view.
Simon opened a drawer and took from it a document.
"In the ordinary course of events Sir Reginald's will would not be known
till after his funeral to-morrow, but if I may regard this conversation
as confidential, I can tell you the principal facts so far as they
affect this case."
"I don't want you to do anything you shouldn't," said Ned quickly. "If
it's not the proper game to read the will now, don't."
But Silent Simon seemed determined to oblige this morning.
"It is a mere matter of form delaying till to-morrow, and I shall not
read it now; merely tell you the pertinent facts briefly."
"Fire away then. The Lord knows I want to learn every derned pertinent
fact--want to badly!"
"In the first place," the lawyer began, "Lady Cromarty is life rented in
the mansion and property, less certain sums to be paid to other people,
which I am coming to. She therefore lost her husband and a certain
amount of income, and gained nothing that we know of."
"That's a cold-blooded way of putting it," said Ned with something like
a shiver. "However, what next?"
"Sir Malcolm gets L1,000 a year to support him during the life time of
Lady Cromarty, and afterwards falls heir to the whole estate. He
therefore gains a baronetcy and L1,000 a year immediately, and the
estate is brought a stage nearer him. Miss Farmond gets a legacy of
L2,000. She therefore gained L2,000."
"Not that she'll need it," said Ned quickly. "That item doesn't count."
Simon looked at him curiously.
"Why not?" he enquired.
Ned hesitated a moment.
"Perhaps I oughtn't to have said anything," he said, "but this
conversation is confidential, and anyhow the fact will be known soon
enough now, I guess. She is engaged to Sir Malcolm."
For a moment Simon continued to look at him very hard. Then he merely
said:
"Indeed?"
"Of course you won't repeat this till they care to make it known
themselves. I told you so that you'd see a legacy of two thousand pounds
wouldn't count much. It only means an income of--what?"
"One hundred pounds at five per cent; eighty pounds at four."
"Well, that will be neither here nor there now."
Again Simon stared in silence for a moment, but rather through than at
his visitor, it seemed. Then he glanced down at the document again.
"James Bisset gets a legacy of three hundred pounds. There are a few
smaller legacies to servants, but the only two that might have affected
this case do not actually do so. One is John Robertson, Sir Reginald's
chauffeur, but on the night of the crime he was away from home and an
alibi can be established till two in the morning. The other is Donald
Mackay, the gardener, but he is an old man and was in bed with
rheumatism that night."
"I see," observed Ned, "you are giving everybody mentioned in the will
credit for perhaps having committed the murder, supposing it was
physically possible?"
"I am answering the question--who that could conceivably have committed
it, had a motive for doing so? And also, what was that motive?"
"Is that the whole list of them?"
Mr. Rattar glanced at the will again.
"Sir Reginald has cancelled your own debt of twelve hundred pounds, Mr.
Cromarty."
"What!" exclaimed Ned, and for a moment could say no more. Then he said
in a low voice: "It's up to me more than ever!"
"That is the full list of persons within the vicinity two nights ago who
gained by Sir Reginald's death," said Simon in a dry voice, as he put
away the will.
"Including me?" said Ned. "Well, all I've got to say is this, Mr.
Rattar, that my plain common sense tells me that those are no motives at
all. For who knew what they stood to gain by this will? Or that they
stood to gain any blessed thing at all? I hadn't the foggiest notion Sir
Reginald meant to cancel that debt!"
"You may not have known," said Simon still very drily, "and it is quite
possible that Bisset may not have known of his legacy. Though, on the
other hand, it is likely enough that Sir Reginald mentioned the fact
that he would be remembered. But Lady Cromarty presumably knew his
arrangements. And it is most unlikely that he should have said nothing
to his heir about his intention to make him an adequate allowance if he
came into the title and Lady Cromarty was still alive and life rented in
the place. Also, it is highly probable that either Sir Reginald or Lady
Cromarty told Miss Farmond that some provision would be made for her."
Ned Cromarty said nothing for a few moments, but he seemed to be
thinking very hard. Then he rose from his chair and remarked:
"Well, I guess this has all got to be thought over."
He moved slowly to the door, while Simon gazed silently into space. His
hand was on the handle when the lawyer turned in his chair and asked:
"Why was nothing said about Sir Malcolm's engagement to Miss Farmond?"
"Well," said Ned, "the whole thing is no business of mine, but Sir
Reginald had pretty big ideas in some ways and probably one of them was
connected with his heir's marriage."
"A clandestine engagement then?"
Ned Cromarty seemed to dislike the term.
"It's none of my business," he said shortly. "There was no blame on
anyone, anyhow; and mind you, this is absolutely confidential."
The door closed behind him and Simon was left still apparently thinking.
XV
TWO WOMEN
On the day after the funeral Lady Cromarty for the first time felt able
to see the family lawyer. Simon Rattar came out in the morning in a
hired car and spent more than a couple of hours with her. Then for a
short time he was closeted with Sir Malcolm, who, referring to the
interview afterwards, described him as "infernally close and
unsatisfactory"; and finally, in company with the young baronet and
Cicely Farmond, he ate a hurried lunch and departed.
Ever since the fatal evening, Lady Cromarty had been shut up in her own
apartments and the two young people had taken their meals together. Sir
Malcolm at his brightest and best had been capricious company. He was
now moody beyond all Cicely's experience of him. His newborn solemnity
was the most marked feature of his demeanour, but sometimes it dissolved
into pathetic demands for sympathy, and then again froze into profound
and lugubrious silence. He said that he was sleeping badly, and the
pallor of his face and the darkness beneath his eyes seemed to confirm
this. Several times he appeared to be on the point of some peculiarly
solemn disclosure of his feelings or his symptoms, but always ended by
upbraiding his fellow guest for her lack of sympathy, and then relapsing
into silence.
Every now and then on such occasions Cicely caught him staring at her
with an expression she had never seen before, and then looking hurriedly
away; a disconcerting habit that made her own lot none the easier. So
far as the observant Bisset could judge, the baronet seemed, indeed, to
be having so depressing an effect upon the young lady that as her friend
and counsellor he took the liberty of advising a change of air.
"We'll miss you vera much, Miss Farmond," he was good enough to say,
"but I'm thinking that what you want is a seaside resort."
She smiled a little sadly.
"I shall have to make a change very soon, Bisset," she said. "Indeed,
perhaps I ought to have let Lady Cromarty know already that I was ready
to go the moment I was sure I could do nothing more for her."
She began her packing on the morning of Simon's visit. At lunch her air
was a little livelier at first, as if even Simon Rattar were a welcome
variety in a regime of undiluted baronet. Sir Malcolm, too, endeavoured
to do the honours with some degree of cheerfulness; but short though the
meal was, both were silent before the end and vaguely depressed
afterwards.
"I can't stand the old fellow's fishy eye!" declared Sir Malcolm. "I'd
as soon lunch with a cod-fish, dash it! Didn't you feel it too, Cicely?"
"He seemed to look at one so uncomfortably," she agreed. "I couldn't
help feeling he had something on his mind against me, though I suppose
he really doesn't trouble his head about my existence."
"I'm hanged if I like the way he looks at me!" muttered the baronet, and
once again Cicely caught that odd expression in his eye.
That afternoon Bisset informed Miss Farmond that her ladyship desired to
see her. Lady Cromarty's face looked thinner than ever and her lips more
tightly compressed. In her deep mourning and with her grave air, she
seemed to Cicely a monumental figure of tragedy. Her thinness and pallor
and tight lips, she thought only natural, but there was one note that
seemed discordant with pure desolation. The note was sounded by Lady
Cromarty's eyes. At all times they had been ready to harden upon an
occasion, but Cicely thought she had never seen them as hard as they
were now.
"What are your plans, Cicely?" she asked in a low, even voice that
showed no feeling one way or the other.
"I have begun to pack already," said the girl. "I don't want to leave so
long as I can be of any use here, but I am ready to go at any time."
She had expected to be asked where she was going, but Lady Cromarty
instead of putting any question, looked at her for a few moments in
silence. And it was then that a curious uncomfortable feeling began to
possess the girl. It had no definite form and was founded on no reason,
beyond the steady regard of those hard dark eyes.
"I had rather you stayed."
Cicely's own eyes showed her extreme surprise.
"Stayed--here?"
"Yes."
"But are you sure? Wouldn't you really rather be alone? It isn't for my
sake, is it? because--"
"It is for mine. I want you to remain here and keep me company."
She spoke without a trace of smile or any softening of her face, and
Cicely still hesitated.
"But would it really be convenient? You have been very kind to me, and
if you really want me here--"
"I do," interrupted Lady Cromarty in the same even voice. "I want you
particularly to remain."
"Very well then, I shall. Thank you very much--"
Again she was cut short.
"That is settled then. Perhaps you will excuse me now, Cicely."
The girl went downstairs very thoughtfully. At the foot the young
baronet met her.
"Have you settled where to go?" he asked.
"Lady Cromarty has asked me to stay on with her."
His face fell.
"Stay on in this house of mourning? Oh, no, Cicely!"
"I have promised," she said.
The young man grew curiously agitated.
"Oh, don't stay here!" he besought her. "It keeps me in such dreadful
suspense!"
"In suspense!" she exclaimed. "Whatever do you mean, Malcolm?"
Again she saw that look in his eye, and again he raised a
sympathy-beseeching wail. Cicely's patience began to give way.
"Really, Malcolm!" she cried tartly, "if you have anything to say, say
it, but don't go on like a baby!"
"Like a baby!" repeated the deeply affronted baronet. "Heavens, would
you liken me to _that_, of all things! I had meant to confide in you,
Cicely, but you have made it impossible. Impossible!" he repeated
sombrely, and stalked to the door.
Next morning, Sir Malcolm left for London, his confidence still locked
in his breast, and Cicely was alone with Lady Cromarty.
XVI
RUMOUR
One windy afternoon a man on a bicycle struggled up to the door of
Stanesland Castle and while waiting for an answer to his ring, studied
the front of that ancient building with an expression which would at
once have informed his intimates that he was meditating on the
principles of Scottish baronial architecture. A few minutes later Mr.
Bisset was shown into the laird of Stanesland's smoking room and
addressed Mr. Cromarty with a happy blend of consciousness of his own
importance and respect for the laird's.
"I have taken the liberty of calling, sir, for to lay before you a few
fresh datas."
"Fire away," said the laird.
"In the first place, sir, I understand that you have been making
enquiries through the county yourself, sir; is that not so?"
"I've been through this blessed county, Bisset, from end to end to see
whether I could get on the track of any suspicious stranger. I've been
working both with the police and independent of the police, and I've
drawn blank."
Bisset looked distinctly disappointed.
"I've heard, sir, one or two stories which I was hoping might have
something in them."
"I've heard about half a dozen and gone into them all, and there's
nothing in one of them."
"Half a dozen stories?" Bisset's eye began to look hopeful again. "Well,
sir, perhaps if I was to go into some of them again in the light of my
fresh datas, they might wear, as it were, a different aspect."
"Well," said Ned. "What have you found? Have a cigar and let's hear what
you've been at."
The expert crackled the cigar approvingly between his fingers, lit it
with increased approval, and began:
"Yon man was behind the curtains all the time."
"The devil he was! How do you know?"
"Well, sir, it's a matter of deduction. Ye see supposing he came in by
the door, there are objections, and supposing he came in by the windie
there are objections. Either way there are objections which make it
difficult for to accept those theories. And then it struck me--the man
must have been behind the curtains all the while!"
"He must have come either by the door or window to get there."
"That's true, Mr. Cromarty. But such minor points we can consider in a
wee while, when we have seen how everything is otherwise explained. Now
supposing we have the murderer behind the curtains; that brings him
within six feet of where the wee table was standing. How did he get Sir
Reginald to come to the table? He made some kind of sound. What kind of
sound? Some imitation of an animal; probably of a cat. How did Sir
Reginald not cry out when he saw the man? Because he never did see the
man! How did he not see him?"
"Man was a ventriloquist and made a sound in the other direction,"
suggested Ned with extreme gravity.
"God, but that's possible, Mr. Cromarty! I hadna thought of that! Well,
it'll fit into the facts all right, you'll see. My theory was that
either the man threw something at the master and knocked him down that
way, or he was able to reach out and give him a bat on the heid without
moving from the curtains."
"He must have been an awkward customer."