About lunch-time a smart dogcart came bowling along the snow covered
road, and from it descended the doctor and the police inspector,
likewise a constable: old Joe, with his slower conveyance, had been left
to follow on. Dr Sandys was a good representative of the prosperous
G.P. in practice in a prosperous market town; genial, hearty, and
prepared to be surprised at nothing which came in his way
professionally. The inspector likewise was a good type of his kind;
tall, alert, rather soldierly in countenance and bearing.
"Well, Mr Mervyn, this is a strange sort of happening, isn't it?" began
the former. "However, the first thing to do is to get to work."
"Will you look at the--er--the body first, or the locality?" said
Mervyn.
"The locality?"
"Yes. I mean where I first picked him up. I suppose Joe told you all
about it, didn't he?"
"Yes, he told us all about it--after a fashion," said the inspector with
a slight smile. "But I needn't remind you Mr Mervyn, what sort of a
`telling all about it,' one would be likely to get from a man of old
Joe's stamp. So the first thing to do is for you to give us your
account of what happened," and the speaker's hand instinctively dived
for his notebook.
"I rather think I had better inspect the `subject' the first thing,
Nashby," struck in the doctor.
"Of course. This way."
Mervyn showed them into the room and raised the blinds, which he had
lowered again after the first discovery. The constable was left in
charge of the dogcart. The doctor bent over the dead man and proceeded
to make his first examination. The bystanders could not but notice that
he looked more than a little puzzled.
"We shall have to strip him," he said, looking up. This was done, the
police inspector giving his aid. Mervyn stood and looked on.
The body was that of a well-knit, well-proportioned man, probably on the
right side of forty.
"No sign of injury, none whatever," pronounced the doctor, "and his
heart is as sound as a bell. Here is something, but it seems of no
importance. At one time or other, he was addicted to the drug habit,"
pointing to the left arm, which he had raised. "But--not lately."
"Not lately?" echoed the inspector, whose notebook was in full swing.
"Now to be precise, doctor, up to how lately should you say?"
"It's impossible to be precise," was the answer, "if by that you mean
exactly how many years ago he discontinued the habit--and from all
appearances he needn't have been very greatly addicted to it even then.
Certainly not less than five or six years ago, possibly longer; indeed,
I should say longer."
The inspector nodded, and for a minute or two his stylo was very busy
indeed. The puzzled frown on the surgeon's face grew deeper and deeper,
and well it might. Here was a strong, well-built, healthy man in the
prime of life, dying in his sleep, and no sign whatever to guide Science
towards the discovery of the cause.
"We shall have to make an exhaustive postmortem," said the doctor at
last, covering the dead man again, "and to this end I must take steps
for having the body removed to Clancehurst, for I propose to call in
first-rate expert assistance."
"Very good, sir," assented the inspector briskly, relieved that he was
now going to get his own innings, and also all his professional keenness
to the fore over the prospect of being put in charge of a very
out-of-the-way case. "And now, with Mr Mervyn's permission, I will
take his statement as to the whole of last night's occurrence."
"You shall have it to the full," was the answer. "But first of all had
you not better go through the poor chap's clothes--they are hanging up
in the kitchen where I put them to dry, those he has on now are mine,
which I rigged him out with as a change. Needless to say I haven't
touched a thing of his, pending your arrival. You may find some clue to
identification there."
"We'll do so at once," said the police officer, and they adjourned
forthwith to the kitchen.
The clothes were hanging where they had been placed the night before,
and were now quite dry. But mystery seemed likely to be piled on
mystery. Except some sovereigns and silver change amounting to
something over five pounds in all, the pockets were absolutely empty.
Not a scrap of paper, no card-case or pocket-book, not even a purse.
Besides the money, an old Waterbury watch, attached to a leather guard,
made up the entire contents.
Furthermore the clothes themselves afforded no clue. The buttons were
plain horn ones, and bore the name of no tailor, nor was there any shop
mark upon any article of hosiery; and now the police inspector warmed to
his work, for he could see that all such indications had been carefully
and deliberately removed. But by whom, and with what object? That was
his business to find out.
"Now Mr Mervyn, if you please. I should like your statement."
"Certainly. Let's go back into the other room and I'll get you some
foolscap to take it down on. It'll ease your notebook--eh, inspector?"
Mervyn told his story, plainly and concisely, as we know it--not
omitting any detail. Any detail? Yes. He omitted just one--the
finding of the metal disk. But at that part of the narrative which
related to the apparition--or hallucination--of the opening door, both
his auditors looked up keenly. For they were acquainted with the weird
legends which popular belief hung around Heath Hover.
"As sure as I sit here," went on the narrator, "that manifestation--
delusion, if you like--was the means of saving the man's life, for if I
hadn't seen it I should have finished dropping off to sleep in my chair,
and had I done so, why he might have shouted till doomsday without my
hearing him. However, it didn't seem much good, as things turned out."
The inspector laid down his stylo.
"Now, Mr Mervyn, if you will be so good. We will examine that door,
and what lies beyond it."
"Certainly," and Mervyn, unlocking a drawer in his writing table
produced a long, brown, heavy key.
"See," he went on, "it was under this pile of papers. I always keep it
there. Yet that door opened of itself, just as I have described. I'd
swear to that as positively as I could swear to anything in my life."
"You have strong nerves, Mr Mervyn," said the inspector, a thought
drily, perhaps, as he took the key which the other tendered to him.
The lock, though a trifle stiff, turned without difficulty. A black gap
yawned in front, and a close yet chilly, fungus-laden air greeted their
faces.
"Hold hard now till I get some candles," went on Mervyn. In a moment
these were obtained and lighted, each carrying one. "I'd better lead,"
he appended, perhaps anticipating the thought that flitted through the
mind of the police officer. It would be so easy otherwise to spring
back, and locking the pair securely in that vault, thus obtain for
himself a start of several hours. Such things had happened.
A good bit of a shiver ran through the trio as they descended into the
dank mustiness of the vault. The walls glistened with moisture, so did
the stone floor. But there was no break in the solid masonry, save for
one hole, barely four inches across, which admitted air from the outside
but no light. The inspector made a minute and exhaustive examination of
both walls and flooring, but there was no sign of either having been
disturbed, perhaps for centuries.
"My belief is that this place was nothing more than a common or homely
wine cellar," said Mervyn, as having found nothing whatever to reward
their investigation they took their way up the stone steps again. "The
fact of the existence of a disused empty vault like this under a house
is enough to give rise to all sorts of weird beliefs centring round it.
But yet--that door business of last night--well, if that was an optical
delusion I'll never believe in my own eyesight again. And now," as they
regained the outer day, "before we start to look at the hole in the ice,
how about a little something stimulating after your drive. Eh?"
The doctor was agreeable, in fact quite willing, but the cautious police
officer declined. Mervyn, seeing through this thought too, got out a
new bottle with the seal intact, and drew the cork. Likewise he placed
an unbroken syphon on the table, perhaps rather ostentatiously. While
thus engaged, the pony-cart rumbled up, bringing the returning Joe.
He, too, now the inspector desired to question. Possibly because
disregarding his master's parting injunction, the old rustic had been
imbibing some Dutch courage in the shape of a couple of "goes" of square
Hollands on the way back at the _Dog and Partridge_, the same number of
miles distant upon the road, he was able to answer these questions in a
straight and fairly lucid manner, though he would more than once
revert--as his mind misgave him--to his stock declaration! "I didn't
see no strange gemmun 'ere last night. You'll mind I said so, Mus'
Mervyn. I didn't see he."
"Nobody said you did, Joe," reassured the inspector. "You only saw him
this morning, after he was dead."
"That's Gawd's truth, I reckon, Mr Nashby, zur," was the fervent
rejoinder.
"One thing more, if you'll excuse me, Mr Mervyn," said Nashby. "I'll
just examine this room a little."
He looked on the floor, under the couch, in cupboards, and drawers; not
omitting the old vases of quaint ware that stood on the mantelpiece.
The owner, watching with outward indifference, had his own thoughts. So
had the inspector. Whoever had been the cause of this unknown
stranger's death, it had been no one entering the house from outside,
determined the latter.
Then they adjourned to view the scene of the rescue. Along the path
through the wood Mervyn pointed out the footprints--half obliterated by
subsequent snow--left by himself and the rescued stranger, likewise
those quite fresh, made by himself and old Joe that morning on their
respective and independent progresses to the spot. Of these Nashby took
careful measurements.
"There you are," went on Mervyn, as they arrived at the place. "You'll
see the hole is newly frozen over, but the ladder's just where I left
it. The water's over twenty feet deep there, but what the deuce started
the poor chap on the ice at all is what bangs me. Seems to me we're up
against a very tall thing in mysteries."
"I shouldn't wonder if we were, Mr Mervyn," rejoined the inspector,
again rather drily.
"Couldn't we trace his footmarks back?" suggested the doctor. "It would
show the direction he had come from, and then we could make enquiries.
Eh, Nashby?"
"The very thing I was going to do," answered the latter.
But the plan, though good, was difficult of execution. The footmarks
were almost obliterated by the more recent snowfall, in places quite so.
And they led from nowhere direct. They zigzagged and twisted, as
though their perpetrator were wandering at random and round and round,
then lost themselves altogether in a sort of small ravine. But the very
incoherency of their course suggested a reason for the stranger plunging
into the peril he had done. Clearly he had got lost in the thick woods
and had welcomed this long, broad stretch of open, and apparently strong
ice, as a way out.
"Now I would suggest an adjournment for lunch," said Mervyn. "We can
take up the trail afterwards where we left it."
"That's not half a bad idea," assented the doctor heartily. "Thanks
very much, Mr Mervyn. I'd been about a bit before I started for here,
and after a drive through this invigorating air, it seems a long while
ago since breakfast time."
Inspector Nashby raised no objection. A stalwart police officer, even
though on an interesting case, and prospectively a case for advancement,
is not proof against the pangs of deferred appetite on a crisp, keen,
frosty day. But even while discussing good cheer in an impromptu way in
Mervyn's kitchen--for they left the living-room in silent possession of
the dead--Nashby kept his eyes about him and his perceptions at full
cock. For Nashby had his theories already forming. The doctor as yet
had formed none.
While thus engaged, they missed the fact that the sun-bright day had
overclouded. They were awakened to it, however, by the discovery that
it had begun to snow again. More than begun indeed, for the snow was
coming down, not merely in flakes, but almost in slabs. A little more
of it and they would hardly be able to get back to Clancehurst. The
Inspector jumped to his feet.
"Heavens!" he ejaculated, going to the window. "Why, this'll cover up
all and any footprints there may be to find beyond where we left off."
"Shouldn't wonder if it did. Well, it can't be helped," said Mervyn
coolly. He had by now quite got behind the policeman's suspicions, and
was taking rather a half-hearted delight in teasing that worthy. "Have
another whisky and soda, inspector?"
"Thanks, no. I'll go and take up the track where we left it."
"If you'll take my advice you won't," said Mervyn. "In fact you'll get
back to Clancehurst as soon as possible, and come back here when all's
clear again. Why, you've seen how even a moderate snowdrift can pile
up. If you get caught in the middle of this deluge of it, right out in
the thick of the woods, why I shouldn't wonder if you're as stiff as our
poor friend there, before many hours are gone. What do you say,
doctor?"
"What do I say? Why that I can't afford to get snowed up right away in
the country for days. What price my practice? So if it's all the same
to you, Mr Mervyn, I'll ask you to have my cart hitched up and start
before it gets worse."
Nashby had not waited to hear this decision. He had gone outside to see
if it really was impracticable to pursue the search. But even before he
had reached the top of the path which led to the sluice, the rush of the
blinding cold flakes into his eyes drove him back.
"No, it'd be quite useless," he said, by no means pleased. "Couldn't do
anything in the teeth of this. But it won't be dead against us going
back, rather behind us, that's one thing."
So they started, the inspector very dissatisfied and very suspicious.
He questioned the doctor all the way along the road, under difficulties
certainly, because of the blinding sheets of snow which drove in upon
them, rendering breathing--let alone conversation--difficult--as to
Mervyn, his circumstances and his antecedents--above all, his
antecedents. But on this point the doctor was able to give no
information--only that he knew no more on the subject than did his
questioner.
And Mervyn was left alone with the dead, in solitary, haunted Heath
Hover--yet not quite alone, for the police constable was left too; and
perhaps he was not sorry for the man's companionship. For the snow
whirled down in masses for the best part of the night, blocking the road
in huge drifts, and the wind howled dirgefully round the gables of the
house, where lay the living and the man who had come there to meet his
strange, mysterious death.