very slight gap in them would enable any one to get a good view of the
room, if the blinds were not down. Were the blinds down that night?"
Bisset slapped his knee.
"The middle blind wasn't working!" he cried. "What a fool I've been not
to think on the extraordinar' significance of that fac'! My, the
deductions to be drawn! You've made it quite clear now, sir. The man
tappit at that windie----"
"Steady, steady!" said Carrington, smiling and yet seriously. "Don't you
go announcing that theory! If there's anything in it--mum's the word!
But mind you, Bisset, it's only a bare possibility. There's no good
evidence against the door theory yet."
"Not the table being cowpit and the body moved?"
"They might be explained."
He was thoughtful for a moment and then said deliberately:
"I want--I mean you want certain evidence to exclude the door theory.
Without that, the window theory remains a guess. Sir Malcolm is in
London, I understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Likely to be coming north soon?"
"No word of it, sir."
Mr. Carrington reflected for a moment and then rose and went towards the
window.
"We can draw back the curtains now," said he.
He drew them as he spoke and on the instant stepped involuntarily back
and down went the small table. Miss Cicely Farmond was standing just
outside, evidently arrested by the drawn curtains. Her eyes opened very
wide indeed at the sight of Mr. Carrington suddenly revealed. Her lips
parted for an instant as though she would cry out, and then she hurried
away.
Mr. Carrington seemed more upset by this incident than one would expect
from such a composed, easy-going young man.
"What will they think of me!" he exclaimed. "You must be sure to tell
Miss Farmond--and Lady Cromarty too if she hears of this--that I came
solely to enquire about the shootings and not to poke my nose into their
library! Make that very explicit, Bisset."
Even though assured by Bisset that the young lady was the most amiable
person imaginable, he was continuing to lay stress on the point when his
attention was abruptly diverted by the sight of another lady in deep
black walking slowly away from the house.
"Is that Lady Cromarty?" he asked, and no sooner had Bisset said "yes"
than the window was up and Mr. Carrington stepping out of it.
"I really must explain and apologise to her ladyship," said he.
"Her ladyship will never know----!" began Bisset, but the surprising
visitor was already hastening after the mourning figure. Had the worthy
man been able to hear the conversation which ensued he would have been
more surprised still.
"Lady Cromarty, I believe?" said the stranger in a deferential voice.
She turned quickly, and her eyes searched him with that hard glance they
wore always nowadays.
"Yes, I am Lady Cromarty," she said.
"Pardon me for disturbing you," said he. "It is a mere brief matter of
business. I represent an insurance company to which Sir Malcolm Cromarty
has made certain proposals. We are not perfectly satisfied with his
statements, and from other sources learn that he is engaged to be
married. I have come simply to ascertain whether that is the case."
Lady Cromarty was (as Mr. Carrington had shrewdly divined) no better
versed in the intricate matter of insurance than the majority of her
sex, and evidently perceived nothing very unusual in this enquiry. It
may be added in her excuse that the manner in which it was put by the
representative of the company was a perfect example of how a business
man should address a lady.
"It is the case," said she.
"May I ask your ladyship's authority--in strict confidence of course?"
enquired the representative firmly, but very courteously.
"I learned it from my own man of business," said she.
"Thank you," said the insurance representative. "I beg that your
ladyship will say nothing of my call, and I shall undertake not to
mention the source of my information," and with an adequate bow he
returned to the house.
Before disappearing through her library window, Mr. Carrington saw that
her ladyship's back was turned, and he then gave this candid, if
somewhat sketchy, account of his interview to her butler.
"It suddenly struck me," said he, "that Lady Cromarty might think it
somewhat unseemly of me to come enquiring about shooting so soon after
her bereavement; so I gave her a somewhat different explanation. She is
not likely to make any further enquiries about me and so you need say
nothing about my visit."
He was careful however to impress on his friend Mr. Bisset that he
actually had come from purely sporting motives. In fact he professed
some anxiety to get in touch with Sir Malcolm on the subject, even
though assured that the young baronet had nothing to do with the
shootings.
"Ah, but it will gratify him, Bisset," said he, "and I think it is the
nice thing to do. Could you give me his London address?"
He jotted this down in his pocket book, and then as he was leaving he
said confidentially:
"You tell me that you think Sir Malcolm is interested in Miss Farmond,
though she seemed not so keen on him?"
"That was the way of it to my thinking," said Bisset. "And what
deduction would you draw from that, sir?"
"I should deduce," said this sympathetic and intelligent visitor, "the
probable appearance of certain evidence bearing on our theories,
Bisset."
Mr. Bisset thought he had seldom met a pleasanter gentleman or a more
helpful assistant.
XXV
A TELEGRAM
The car took Mr. Carrington straight back to the town and dropped him at
the door of Mr. Rattar's office.
"I shall want you again at two o'clock sharp," he said to the chauffeur,
and turned in to the office.
He caught the lawyer just before he went out to lunch and said at once:
"I want to see Sir Malcolm Cromarty. Can you arrange for him to run up
here for a day?"
Simon stared at him hard, and there seemed to be even more caution than
usual in his eye; almost, indeed, a touch of suspicion. The lawyer was
not looking quite as well as usual; there was a drawn look about the
upper part of the face and a hint of strain both in eyes and mouth.
"Why do you want to see Sir Malcolm?" he enquired.
"Well," said Carrington, "the fact of the matter is, Mr. Rattar, that,
as you yourself said, the direct evidence is practically nil, and one is
forced to go a good deal by one's judgment of the people suspected or
concerned."
Simon grunted sceptically.
"Very misleading," he said.
"That depends entirely on one's judgment, or rather on one's instinct
for distinguishing bad eggs from good. As a matter of observation I
don't find that certain types of men and women commit certain actions,
and I do find that they are apt to commit others. And contrariwise with
other types."
"Very unsafe doctrine," said Simon emphatically.
"Extremely--in the hands of any one who doesn't know how to apply it. On
the other hand, it can be made a short and commonsense cut to the truth
in many cases. For instance, the man who suspected Mr. Bisset of
committing the crime would simply be wasting his time and energy, even
if there seemed to be some evidence against him."
"Any man can commit any crime," said Simon dogmatically.
Carrington smiled and shook his head.
"Personally," said he, "if you had a young and pretty wife, I am capable
of running away with her, and possibly even of letting her persuade me
to abscond with some of your property, but I am not capable of laying
you out in cold blood and rifling that safe. And a good judge of men
ought to be able to perceive this and not waste his time in trying to
convict me of an offence I couldn't commit. On the other hand, if the
crime was one that my type is apt to commit he would be a fool to acquit
me off-hand, even if there was next to no evidence against me."
"Then you simply go by your impressions of people?"
"Far from it. A complete absence of motive would force me to acquit even
the most promising looking blackguard, unless of course there were some
form of lunacy in his case. One must have motive and one must have
evidence as well, but character is the short cut--if the circumstances
permit you to use it. Sometimes of course they don't, but in this case
they force me to depend on it very largely. Therefore I want to see Sir
Malcolm Cromarty."
The lawyer shook his head.
"No, no, Mr. Carrington," he said, "I can't bring him down here on such
trivial grounds."
"But you yourself suspect him!"
For a moment the lawyer was silent.
"I think suspicion points to him; but what is wanted is _evidence_. You
can't get evidence merely by bringing him here. You don't suppose he
will confess, do you?"
"Have you ever studied the French methods of getting at the truth?"
enquired Carrington, and when Simon shook his head contemptuously, he
added with some significance: "We can learn a good deal from our
neighbours."
"Trivial grounds!" muttered Simon. "No, no!"
Carrington became unusually serious and impressive.
"I am investigating this case, Mr. Rattar, and I want to see Sir
Malcolm. Will you send for him or not?"
"He wouldn't come."
"It depends on the urgency of the message."
"I can't invent bogus urgent messages to my clients."
Carrington smiled.
"I might do the inventing for you."
Again the lawyer stared at him and again there was the same extreme
caution in his eye, mingled with a hint of suspicion.
"I'll think about it," he said.
"I want to see him immediately."
"Call again to-morrow morning."
Carrington's manner altered at once into his usual easy-going air.
"Very well, then, Mr. Rattar," said he as he rose.
"By the way," said Simon, "you have been out at Keldale this morning, I
presume?"
"Yes," said Carrington carelessly, "but there is really nothing new to
be found."
Simon looked at him hard.
"No fresh evidence?"
Carrington laughed.
"Not likely, after you and your sleuth hounds had been over the ground!"
He went to the door, and there Simon again spoke.
"What are you doing next?"
"Upon my word, I am rather wondering. I must think about it. Good
morning."
For a man who was rather wondering, Mr. Carrington's next movements were
remarkably prompt. He first went straight to the Post Office and
dispatched a wire. It was addressed to Sir Malcolm Cromarty and it
ran--"Come immediately urgent news don't answer please don't delay." The
only thing that seemed to indicate a wondering and abstracted mind was
the signature to this message. Instead of "Carrington" he actually wrote
"Cicely Farmond."
He then hurried to the hotel, which he reached at one-fifty. In ten
minutes he had bolted a hasty lunch and at two o'clock was sitting in
the car again.
"To Stanesland Castle," he commanded. "And be as quick as you can."
XXVI
AT STANESLAND
Mr. Carrington's interview with the laird of Stanesland began on much
the same lines as his talk with Bisset. The amiable visitor was shown
into the laird's smoking room--an apartment with vast walls like a
dungeon and on them trophies from the laird's adventurous days, and
proceeded to make enquiry whether Mr. Cromarty was disposed to let his
shootings for next season, or, if not, whether he could recommend any
others.
As the visitor was in no hurry, he declared, to fix anything up, it was
very natural that this conversation, like the morning's, should
eventually turn on to the subject of the great local mystery. Through it
all Mr. Carrington's monocle was more continually fixed on the other
than usual, but if he were looking for peculiarities in the laird's
manner or any admissions made either by tongue or eye, he was
disappointed. Cromarty was as breezy and as direct as ever, but even
when his visitor confessed his extreme interest in such cases of
remarkable crime, he (to all seeming) scented nothing in this beyond a
not uncommon hobby. There was no doubt, however, of his keenness to
discuss the subject. Carrington gave him an entertaining account of his
efforts to assist Mr. Bisset, and then Ned asked:
"Well, what do you think of his theory that the man came in by the
window?"
Carrington smiled.
"Bisset is evidently extremely anxious to save the credit of the
family."
Ned Cromarty was aroused now.
"Good God!" he cried. "But do you mean to say that you think that story
will hold water?"
"What story?" enquired Carrington mildly.
"You know what I mean--the scandal that Sir Malcolm and--and a lady were
concerned in the murder."
"They are said to have actually committed it, aren't they?"
Ned's eye began to look dangerous.
"Do you think it's credible?" he asked brusquely.
"You know them better than I. Do you think it is?"
"Not for an instant!"
"I haven't met Sir Malcolm," said Carrington, wiping his eyeglass on his
handkerchief. "I can't judge of him. What sort of a fellow is he?"
"A bit of a young squirt," said Ned candidly. "But I'll not believe he's
a murderer till I get some proof of it."
"And Miss Farmond? Is she at all a murderous lady?"
He fixed his monocle in his eye just in time to see his host control
himself after what seemed to have been a somewhat violent spasm.
"I'll stake my life on her innocence!" said Ned, and it was hard to know
whether his manner as he said this should be termed fierce or solemn.
For the space of perhaps two seconds Carrington's eyeglass stared very
straight at him, and immediately afterwards was taken out for cleaning
again, while its owner seemed to have found some new food for thought.
The silence was broken by Ned asking brusquely:
"Don't you believe me?"
Again his visitor fixed the monocle in his eye, and he answered now very
quietly and deliberately:
"I happened to meet a young lady one afternoon, whom I discovered to be
Miss Farmond. My own impression--for what it is worth--is that it would
be a mere waste of time to investigate the suspicion against her,
supposing, that is, that one were a detective or anything of that kind
engaged in this case."
"You think she is innocent?" asked Ned eagerly.
"I am quite certain of it, so far as I am any judge."
Ned heaved a sigh of relief, and for an instant a smile flitted across
Carrington's face. It seemed as though he were amused at such a tribute
to the opinion of a mere chance visitor.
"And Sir Malcolm?" enquired Ned.
Carrington shook his head.
"I have no means of judging--yet."
Ned glanced at him quickly.
"Do you expect to get hold of a means?"
Carrington's smile was his only answer to the question. And then, still
smiling, he said:
"I rather wonder, Mr. Cromarty, that you who have taken so much interest
in this case, and who are, I am told, the head of the family, don't get
some professional assistance to help you to get at the bottom of it."
Ned's mouth shut hard and his eyes turned to the fire. He said nothing
for a moment and then remarked:
"Well, I guess that's worth thinking over."
Carrington's shoulders moved in an almost imperceptible shrug, but he
made no comment aloud. In a moment Ned said:
"Supposing those two are scored out, there doesn't seem to be anybody
else inside the house who could have committed the crime, does there?
You wouldn't suspect Lady Cromarty or Bisset, would you?"
"Lady Cromarty is physically incapable of giving her husband the blow he
must have received. Besides, they were a very devoted couple, I
understand, and she gained nothing by his death--lost heavily, in fact.
As for Bisset----" Carrington let his smile finish the sentence.
"Then it must have been some one from outside--but who?"
"Can you think of any one?" asked Carrington.
Ned shook his head emphatically.
"Can you?" he asked.
"Me?" said his visitor with an innocent air, and yet with a twinkle for
an instant in his eye. "I am a mere stranger to the place, and if you
and Mr. Rattar and the police are baffled, what can I suggest?"
Ned seemed for a moment a trifle disconcerted. Then he said:
"That's so, of course, Mr. Carrington. But since we happen to be talking
about it--well, I guess I'm quite curious to know if any ideas have just
happened to occur to you."
"Well," said the other, "between ourselves, Mr. Cromarty, and speaking
quite confidentially, one idea has struck me very forcibly."
"What's that?" asked Ned eagerly.
"Simply this, that though it _might_ be conceivable to think of somebody
or other, the difficulty that stares me in the face is--motive!"
Ned's face fell.
"Well, that's what has struck all of us."
"Sir Reginald was a popular landlord, I hear."
"The most popular in the county."
"This isn't Ireland," continued Carrington. "Tenants don't lay out their
landlords on principle, and in this particular instance they would
simply stand to lose by his death. Then take his tradesmen and his agent
and so on, they all stand to lose too. An illicit love affair and a
vengeful swain might be a conceivable theory, if his character gave
colour to it; but there's not a hint of that, and some rumour would
have got about for certain if that had been the case."
"You may dismiss that," said Ned emphatically.
"Then there you are--what's the motive?"
"If one could think of a possible man, one could probably think of a
possible motive."
On Carrington's face a curious look appeared for an instant.
"I only wish one could," he murmured.
A gong sounded and Ned rose.
"That means tea," said he. "I always have it in my sister's room. Come
up."
They went up the stone stair and turned into Miss Cromarty's boudoir. On
her, Mr. Carrington produced a favourable impression that was evident at
once. At all times she liked good-looking and agreeable gentlemen, and
lately she had been suffering from a dearth of them. She had been
suffering also from her brother's pig-headed refusal to reconsider his
decision not to buy a car; and finally from the lack of some one to
sympathise with her in this matter. In the opulent-looking and
sportingly attired Mr. Carrington she quickly perceived a kindred
spirit, and having a tongue that was not easily intimidated even by the
formidable looking laird, she launched into her grievance. They had been
talking about the long distances that separated most of the mansions in
the county.
"Isn't it ridiculous, Mr. Carrington," said she, "we haven't got a car!"
"Absurd," agreed Mr. Carrington, helping himself to cake.
"Do you know, this brother of mine here has actually come into a
fortune, and yet he won't buy me even one little motor car!"
Ned frowned and muttered something that might have checked their
visitor's reply, had he noticed the laird's displeasure, but for the
moment he seemed to have become very unobserving.
"Come into a fortune?" said he. "What a bit of luck! How much--a
million--two million?"
"Oh, not as much as that, worse luck! But quite enough to buy at least
three decent cars if he was half a sportsman! And he won't get one!"
Mr. Carrington was now trying to balance his cake in his saucer and was
evidently too absorbed in his efforts to notice his host's waxing
displeasure.
"In my experience," said he, "you can't get a decent car much under four
hundred."
"Well," said she, "that's just the figure it would bring it to."
"Lilian!" muttered her brother wrathfully.
But at that moment Mr. Carrington coughed, evidently over a cake crumb,
and failed to hear the expostulation.
"But perhaps he is going to buy you something even handsomer instead,"
he suggested.
"Is he!" she scoffed, with a defiant eye on her brother. "I believe he's
going to blue it in something too scandalous to talk about in mixed
society! Anyhow it's something too mysterious to tell me!"
By this time Ned's face was a thundercloud in which lightning was
clearly imminent, but Mr. Carrington now recovered his wonted tact as
suddenly as he had lost it.
"That reminds me of a very curious story I heard at my club the other
day," he began, and in a few minutes the conversation was far away from
Miss Cromarty's grievances. And then, having finished his cup of tea, he
looked at his watch with an exclamation and protested that he must
depart on the instant.
As he lay back in his car he murmured with a satisfied smile:
"That's settled anyhow!"
And then for the whole drive home he fell very thoughtful indeed. Only
one incident aroused him, and that but for a moment. It was quite dark
by this time, and somewhere between the Keldale House lodge and the
town, the lamps of the car swept for an instant over a girl riding a
bicycle in the opposite direction. Carrington looked round quickly and
saw that she was Miss Cicely Farmond.
XXVII
FLIGHT
On the morning after his visit from Mr. Carrington, Ned Cromarty took
his keeper with him and drove over to shoot on a friend's estate. He
stayed for tea and it was well after five o'clock and quite dark when he
started on his long drive home. The road passed close to a wayside
station with a level crossing over the line, and when they came to this
the gates were closed against them and the light of the signal of the up
line had changed from red to white.
"Train's up to time," said Ned to the keeper. "I thought we'd have got
through before she came."
There was no moon, a fine rain hung in the air, and the night was
already pitch dark. Sitting there in the dogcart before the closed
gates, behind the blinding light of the gig lamps, they were quite
invisible themselves; but about thirty yards to their left they saw the
station platform plainly in the radiance of its lights, and, straight
before them in the radiance of their own, they could see less distinctly
the road beyond the line.
At first, save for the distant rumble of the southward bound train,
there was no sign of life or of movement anywhere, and then all at once
a figure on a bicycle appeared on the road, and in a moment dismounted
beside the station. It was a girl in black, and at the sight of her, Ned
bent forward suddenly in his driving seat and stared intently into the
night. He saw her unstrap a small suit case from the bicycle and lead
the bicycle into the station. A minute or two passed and then she
emerged from the ticket office on to the platform carrying the suit case
in her hand. The bicycle she had evidently left in the station, and it
seemed manifest that she was going by this train.
"That's Miss Farmond, sir, from Keldale House!" exclaimed the keeper.
His master said nothing but kept his eye intently fixed on the girl. One
of the platform lamps lit her plainly, and he thought she looked the
most forlorn and moving sight that had ever stirred his heart. There was
something shrinking in her attitude, and when she looked once for a few
moments straight towards him, there seemed to be something both sad and
frightened in her face. Not another soul was on the platform, and seen
in that patch of light against an immensity of dark empty country and
black sky, she gave him such an impression of friendlessness that he
could scarcely stay in his seat. And all the while the roar of the
on-coming train was growing louder and ever louder. In a few minutes she
would be gone--"Where?" he asked himself.
"I'm wondering where she'll be going at this time o' night with nae
mair luggage than yon," said the keeper.
That decided it.
"Take the trap home and tell Miss Cromarty not to expect me to-night,"
said his master, quickly. "Say I've gone--oh, anywhere you derned well
like! There's something up and I'm going to see what it is."
He jumped quietly on the road just as the engine thundered between the
gates in front. By the time the train was at rest, he was over the gate
and making his way to the platform. He stopped in the darkness by the
rear end of the train till he saw the figure in black disappear into a
carriage, and then he stepped into a compartment near the guard's van.
"Haven't got a ticket, but I'll pay as I go along," he said to the guard
as he passed the window.
The guard knew Mr. Cromarty well and touched his cap, and then the train
started and Mr. Cromarty was embarked upon what he confessed to himself
was the blindest journey he had ever made in all his varied career.