Mr. Jacobs, the detective from Scotland Yard, arrived at the Hall a
little after four. He was a short, comfortable-looking person, with a
round, almost boyish face, a pleasant smile and a pair of blue eyes,
with a frank and innocent expression; in fact, anything more unlike the
conventional detective beloved by the fictionist it would be difficult
to imagine. The Inspector had met him at the station, and had gone over
the case with meticulous care; and Mr. Jacobs, smoking placidly, had
listened--well, as you and I, dear reader, would listen to a tale which
had no very great interest for us. If the truth must be told, the worthy
Inspector was rather disappointed; he had expected the great man to
display a hawk-like acuteness and to ask a number of incisive questions;
but Mr. Jacobs asked none; he said merely, when the recital was
finished,
"You have done everything you could, Mr. Smith. Not a very difficult
case, eh?"
"Not difficult!" repeated the Inspector, with surprise. "Have you got a
clue already?"
Mr. Jacobs smiled. "Can't say yet," he replied.
As they drove up to the Hall, Heyton was seen standing just within the
threshold, as if waiting for them.
"Lord Heyton, the Marquess's son," whispered the Inspector.
Mr. Jacobs nodded; he did not direct a piercing glance at Heyton's pale
face and bloodshot eyes, with their swollen lids; in fact, he did not
appear to notice anything, as he went forward, hat in hand.
A few words of commonplace greeting were exchanged; Mr. Jacobs expressed
his sympathy in a low voice, devoid of any acuteness, and Heyton drew a
breath of relief, as he led the way into the library; to him it seemed
that the man from Scotland Yard looked rather stupid than otherwise. Mr.
Jacobs took a seat, and Heyton, of his own accord, repeated, almost word
for word, the account he had given to the Inspector.
"It's my opinion," he wound up, "that you'll find the man amongst those
blackguard gipsies."
"Yes, my lord?" responded the detective, interrogatively. Then he went
upstairs to the dressing-room. "I think I should like to be alone in
here, my lord, if you don't mind," he said.
He took the key from the Inspector, and went in, closing the door after
him. When he came out, his round, innocent-looking face was grave, but
revealed nothing.
"Has the Marquess recovered consciousness?" he asked.
"Not yet, I am sorry to say," replied Heyton. "They are keeping the room
very quiet, and my wife will tell me the moment my father comes to."
"I should like to know, when he does so, my lord," said the detective.
"Is there anyone else with him--I mean, beside the doctor and the
nurse?"
"Mrs. Dexter, the housekeeper, and a young lady, Miss Grant, a kind of
secretary and librarian."
"Just so," said Mr. Jacobs. "Thank you, my lord. I don't use alcohol;
but I should like to have a cup of tea, if I may: great tea-drinker."
He took his cup of tea with the Inspector in the morning-room, and while
he drank it, he talked to the Inspector--of the country and the crops.
"I love the country," he said. "If I had my way, I would never put foot
in London again. When I retire, Inspector, I'm going to buy a little
farm--if it will run to it; and London won't see me again in a hurry.
Beautiful place, this; and they breed a remarkably good class of cattle.
I'm rather an authority on shorthorns; shall go in for some myself, if I
can afford it."
To all this the Inspector listened with amazement.
"Anything you'd like me to do, Mr. Jacobs?" he asked, in a tone that
verged on exasperation. "Is there anything else you'd like to see? That
window in the lower hall, for instance?"
"Thanks; I saw it as we passed through," replied Mr. Jacobs, simply.
"No; I don't think there's anything I want to see. Yes; this is a
beautiful house; quite a show-place. I should like to see something of
it presently; but one doesn't like to intrude at such a time as this."
The Inspector stared at him. "But perhaps I might go through what I
suppose you'd call the state rooms--and yes, upstairs."
"I thought you would have liked to examine the whole house without loss
of time," remarked the Inspector, with an aggrieved air.
"Oh, presently will do," said Mr. Jacobs; "don't want to make myself a
nuisance. We might walk round the grounds."
They went out, the Inspector still confused and aggrieved by what he
considered the detective's lack of business method, and Mr. Jacobs gazed
round him with approval and admiration.
"Beautiful! Beautiful!" he murmured. "Where's this lake Lord Heyton
spoke of? I should like to see that. In my opinion, every place of this
sort ought to have a bit of water: lends such a charm to the scenery,
don't you think, Inspector?"
"Oh, yes," assented the Inspector, almost with disgust. "This way."
"Ah, this is the nearest way from the house, across the lawn, of
course," said Mr. Jacobs. "I suppose this is the way Lord Heyton comes
when he goes for his bath. Right across the lawn, eh?"
The Inspector nodded indifferently. It seemed to him that the detective
was curious about everything unconnected with the case.
They went across the lawn, the detective still dilating on the charms of
a country life, and entered the wood. If they had not followed exactly
the line taken by Heyton in the morning, they had touched it now and
again; and when they reached the edge of the lake, Mr. Jacobs looked
round in a casual way and presently seated himself on the big stone on
which Heyton had sat while he dressed himself. Mr. Jacobs obviously was
delighted with the lake and its surroundings; and the Inspector would
not have been surprised if the great detective had proposed a swim; but
he stopped short of that eccentricity and they returned to the house.
They went into the state rooms, which received Mr. Jacobs' unstinted
admiration, and were crossing the hall to the little sitting-room which
had been set apart for him, when Celia met them. She was very pale, and
her brows were drawn together by trouble and anxiety; for a great deal
of responsibility had fallen suddenly on her shoulders. Though a duly
qualified nurse was in possession of the sick-room, Mrs. Dexter and
Celia were assisting her; and Celia had Miriam almost entirely on her
hands; for Miriam was almost in a state of collapse. Celia had expected
her to break down; but there was something in Miriam's condition which
puzzled Celia. She seemed not only overwhelmed by grief and anxiety, but
to be possessed of a nervous terror which expressed itself in an
avoidance of her husband. Lord Heyton had asked after his wife several
times that day; but Miriam had refused to see him, and once, when Celia
ventured to plead with her, and to try to persuade her to allow Lord
Heyton to come into the room, Miriam had sprung at the door and leant
with her back against it, panting, with absolute terror, and with a look
of horror on her face which at once stopped all Celia's attempts at
persuasion.
For a time, Miriam paced up and down the room, like one distraught,
continually muttering, "Will he die? Will it be murder?" But at last
Celia had succeeded in getting the hysterical woman to bed, where she
lay, exhausted by her emotions. Celia was on her way to ask Doctor Scott
for a sleeping draught, when she was met by the detective and the
Inspector.
"Miss Grant, the librarian," murmured the Inspector; and Mr. Jacobs
bowed politely.
"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Grant," he said. "Wish it were
in happier circumstances. How is the Marquess now?"
"Still the same," replied Celia. "He is not yet conscious."
"Dear me; dear me!" murmured Mr. Jacobs, sympathetically. "Now, my dear
young lady, may I ask you a favour--I don't want to trouble the doctor,
he's got quite enough to do; so have you, no doubt, for that matter; but
you know what doctors are?--What I want you to do, if you will be so
kind, and if you should be in the room and the Marquess recovers
consciousness, is to just send to me in the sitting-room here and let me
know."
"I will do so," said Celia, and she passed on to the morning-room, where
Doctor Scott was giving some directions to his assistant.
So suddenly had the terrible blow fallen that she had scarcely time to
think of her lover. It hurt her to imagine him waiting in the wood for
her, on the chance of seeing her, and to know that she could not send a
message to him, could not let him know. But she told herself that, no
doubt, by this time, he had heard of the terrible tragedy and would
understand. She could not afford much thought for him; her hands were
too full; indeed, in addition to her other responsibilities, she had, in
a measure, taken Mrs. Dexter's place in the household, and had to give
directions to the still scared servants.
She sent down to the village for the sleeping draught which Doctor Scott
prescribed for Miriam, and as soon as she could, went upstairs again. In
the corridor, she met Lord Heyton, and he looked so ill, so careworn,
that, for a moment, her dislike of him was outbalanced by pity. He
nodded to her, and she was about to pass on; then she paused and said:
"Have you had anything to eat, my lord? Everyone is so busy and so
confused, there will be no regular meals, I am afraid."
"Oh, that's all right," he said, glancing at her furtively, and then
lowering his eyes. "I'm not much in the humour for meals, as you may
guess. Has my father come to, yet? Look here, that officious fool of a
nurse has shut me out of the room. I wish you'd--yes, look here, just
let me know when he comes to. I shall be hanging about. I say," he
added, with another furtive glance at her pale face, "you're looking
pretty upset yourself. I suppose they've shoved everything on to
you.--And there's Miriam! What's become of her?"
"Lady Heyton is in bed--and asleep, I hope, my lord," said Celia; and
reluctantly and with a touch of colour, she added, "I think it would be
better not to disturb her ladyship; she--she is very much upset; very
ill, indeed."
He nodded. "Not to be surprised at!" he said. "I'm feeling pretty seedy
myself. Here, will you come with me and have a glass of wine?"
"No, thank you, my lord," replied Celia; and, all her dislike of him
active again, she left him.
About six o'clock the watchers by the sick bed noticed a change in the
Marquess. His eyelids flickered a moment, his lips moved. Celia, who was
standing nearest to him, bent over him and made a sign to Mrs. Dexter
and the doctor, and they hastened forward noiselessly. For some time,
the stricken man struggled for speech; then one word passed his lips,
almost inaudibly,
"Percy!"
Celia looked at the doctor questioningly. He nodded, and she went out.
She found Heyton in the smoking-room; there was a decanter of brandy in
front of him and his face was flushed; but it went white as she said, as
calmly as she could,
"The Marquess has recovered consciousness; he has asked for you, my
lord."
He got up and steadied himself, with one hand on the table, looking at
her with a curious expression in his face: in that instant, it reminded
her of the expression on that of his wife; it was one of absolute
terror. But it was only momentary; he nodded and went out of the room.
Celia was following him, when she caught sight of a small part of the
detective's figure, just inside the sitting-room; she had forgotten him,
but as she went towards him he made a sign as if he understood; indeed,
he waved her away.
Mr. Jacobs waited until Celia had gone; then he went upstairs softly; in
the corridor, near the Marquess's door, he met the doctor, followed by
Mrs. Dexter and the nurse, coming out.
"I beg your pardon," he said. "I was just going up to have another look
at the dressing-room."
The doctor inclined his head. "Don't make any more noise than you can
help," he said. "We have left the Marquess alone with Lord Heyton; you
must do nothing to disturb them."
"Quite so; I'll go up presently," said Mr. Jacobs; and he walked down
the corridor. But when the others had disappeared, he turned quickly and
softly, and entered the dressing-room.
With the outer door open an inch, he watched and waited; and in a very
few minutes Heyton came out of the sick-room. He was white as death, and
he was shaking in every limb. The detective waited until he had heard
Heyton's slow and heavy steps descend the stairs, then Mr. Jacobs went
down, by the back stairs, to his sitting-room. He dined there, with the
Inspector, and entertained--though that is scarcely the word--the amazed
and disgusted Mr. Brown by an account of a visit Mr. Jacobs had paid to
a big agricultural show in the north.
After dinner, he smoked a cigar with an air of quiet and subdued
enjoyment proper to the circumstances; and a little later on, he went
for a stroll. The night was hot, and Heyton had gone on to the terrace;
he had had some more brandy, and was trying to smoke; but his throat and
lips were too parched to permit of his doing so, and with an oath, he
flung the cigar away. It fell very nearly on Mr. Jacobs' Homburg hat.
"All right, my lord," he said, as Heyton muttered a sullen apology. "I
was just taking a stroll." He went up the steps, and stood beside
Heyton, looking at the view with obvious admiration; then presently, he
said, "I was going to ask you if you'd mind signing a paper for me, my
lord. It's just a little report for Scotland Yard; scarcely necessary
perhaps, but still----"
"All right," said Heyton, dully. "Here, come in here!" They entered the
library by the French door.
"A beautiful room: magnificent!" murmured Mr. Jacobs. He drew a paper
from his pocket and spread it out on the writing-slope. "Just here, my
lord, if you please; it's a kind of authorization from you to take
charge of the case."
He handed Heyton a pen, and Heyton looked at the paper hazily and was
about to sign, when Mr. Jacobs, in drawing the inkstand nearer, had the
misfortune to upset it. The ink ran over the paper, and over Heyton's
fingers.
"What the devil!" he exclaimed, angrily.
"I beg your pardon, my lord! I'm very sorry; very sorry; it was
dreadfully clumsy of me. Dear, dear; it's all over your lordship's hand!
Here, wipe it on this, my lord!"
In his agitation and embarrassment, Mr. Jacobs actually caught hold of
Heyton's hand and pressed it on a sheet of paper.
"Tut, tut," he said. "I thought it was blotting-paper! Here it is! I
really am so sorry--never did such a thing in my life before!"
"Damned clumsy of you!" growled Heyton. "I'm in a beast of a mess!
Where's a cloth?"
"Pray take my handkerchief, my lord," said Mr. Jacobs, offering it.
At this moment, Celia entered the room. She would have drawn back at
sight of the two men; but Heyton called to her over his shoulder.
"Hi! Have you got a cloth? The ink's upset----"
She ran to a drawer and took out a clean duster; and Heyton, swearing
under his breath, wiped the remainder of the ink from his fingers.
"I'd better go and wash it," he said; and he went out of the room.
"Tut, tut!" said Mr. Jacobs. "It was my fault, Miss Grant. I was
reaching for the ink, to bring it nearer his lordship, when my sleeve or
something caught the corner of the desk here and, before you could say
'Jack Robinson,' the mischief was done."
He seemed so greatly distressed and upset by the accident, that Celia
quite felt for him.
"Oh, it is not a very great matter," she said, soothingly. "There has
been no harm done."
Indeed, it did seem to her a very trivial affair, compared with the
awful tragedy in which they were moving. "I will get a cloth and wipe up
the ink; fortunately, it hasn't run on to the carpet."
As she spoke, she took up the sheets of writing-paper and blotting paper
between her finger and thumb, intending to put them in the waste-paper
basket; but, with a kind of apologetic laugh, Mr. Jacobs laid his hand
on her arm, and said:
"No, don't throw them away! Give them to me, if you will. I should like
to keep them as a kind of memento, as a sort of warning for the future
not to be so clumsy."
With a shadow of a smile, she gave the two pieces of paper to him, and
as he took them he said,
"I've got my own fingers inked. Serve me right. I'll go and wash my
hands. Really, I shall never forgive myself! No wonder his lordship was
angry."
"Was he?" said Celia, absently. "Yes; he was. But you must remember Lord
Heyton is very much upset; when one's nerves are on the rack, the least
thing, trifling though it may be----"
"Quite so; quite so," said Mr. Jacobs, with a nod of comprehension.
He was still so much upset by the accident, that he forgot to wash his
hands and went straight to his sitting-room, still carrying the two
sheets of paper, the evidences of his inexcusable clumsiness.