The first hint of this enigma was conveyed to Mr. Twiss late one night
at his private address. It came in the shape of a telegram from Archie
Cranfield, which seemed to the agitated solicitor rather a cry of
distress than a message sent across the wires.
"Come at once. I am in terrible need.--Cranfield."
There were no trains at so late an hour by which Mr. Twiss could reach
his client; he must needs wait until the morning. He travelled,
however, by the first train from Liverpool Street. Although the
newspapers were set out upon the bookstall, not one of them contained
a word of anything amiss at Archie Cranfield's house, and Mr. Twiss
began to breathe more freely. It was too early for a cab to be in
waiting at the station, and Mr. Twiss set out to walk the six miles.
It was a fine, clear morning of November; but for the want of leaves
and birds, and the dull look of the countryside, Mr. Twiss might have
believed the season to be June. His spirits rose as he walked, his
blood warmed to a comfortable glow, and by the time he came to the
gates of the house, Cranfield's summons had become a trifling thing.
As he walked up to the door, however, his mood changed, for every
blind in the house was drawn. The door was opened before he could
touch the bell, and it was opened by Cranfield himself. His face was
pale and disordered, his manner that of a man at his wits' end.
"What has happened?" asked Mr. Twiss as he entered the hall.
"A terrible thing!" replied Cranfield. "It's Brayton. Have you
breakfasted? I suppose not. Come, and I will tell you while you eat."
He walked up and down the room while Mr. Twiss ate his breakfast, and
gradually, by question and by answer, the story took shape.
Corroboration was easy and was secured. There was no real dispute
about the facts; they were simple and clear.
There were two other visitors in the house besides Captain Brayton,
one a barrister named Henry Chalmers, and the second, William
Linfield, a man about town as the phrase goes. Both men stood in much
the same relationship to Archie Cranfield as Captain Brayton did--that
is to say, they were old friends who had seen little of their host of
late, and were somewhat surprised to receive his invitation after so
long an interval. They had accepted it in the same spirit as Brayton,
and the three men arrived together on Wednesday evening. On Thursday
the party of four shot over some turnip fields and a few clumps of
wood which belonged to the house, and played a game of bridge in the
evening. In the opinion of all, Brayton was never in better spirits.
On Friday the four men shot again and returned to the house as
darkness was coming on. They took tea in the smoking-room, and after
tea Brayton declared his intention to write some letters before
dinner. He went upstairs to his room for that purpose.
The other three men remained in the smoking-room. Of that there was no
doubt. Both Chalmers and Linfield were emphatic upon the point.
Chalmers, in particular, said:
"We sat talking on a well-worn theme, I in a chair on one side of the
fireplace, Archie Cranfield in another opposite to me, and Linfield
sitting on the edge of the billiard-table between us. How the subject
cropped up I cannot remember, but I found myself arguing that most men
hid their real selves all their lives even from their most intimate
friends, that there were secret chambers in a man's consciousness
wherein he lived a different life from that which the world saw and
knew, and that it was only by some rare mistake the portals of that
chamber were ever passed by any other man. Linfield would not hear of
it. If this hidden man were the real man, he held, in some way or
another the reality would triumph, and some vague suspicion of the
truth would in the end be felt by all his intimates. I upheld my view
by instances from the courts of law, Linfield his by the aid of a
generous imagination, while Cranfield looked from one to the other of
us with his sly, mocking smile. I turned to him, indeed, in some heat.
"'Well, since you appear to know, Cranfield, tell me which of us is
right,' and his pipe fell from his fingers and broke upon the hearth.
He stood up, with his face grown white and his lips drawn back from
his teeth in a kind of snarl.
"'What do you mean by that?' he asked; and before I could answer, the
door was thrown violently open, and Cranfield's man-servant burst into
the room. He mastered himself enough to say:
"'May I speak to you, sir?'
"Cranfield went outside the door with him. He could not have moved six
paces from the door, for though he closed it behind him, we heard the
sound of his voice and of his servant's speaking in low tones.
Moreover, there was no appreciable moment of time between the
cessation of the voices and Cranfield's reappearance in the room. He
came back to the fireplace and said very quietly:
"'I have something terrible to tell you. Brayton has shot himself.'
"He then glanced from Linfield's face to mine, and sat down in a chair
heavily. Then he crouched over the fire shivering. Both Linfield and
myself were too shocked by the news to say a word for a moment or two.
Then Linfield asked:
"'But is he dead?'
"'Humphreys says so,' Cranfield returned. 'I have telephoned to the
police and to the doctor.'
"'But we had better go upstairs ourselves and see,' said I. And we
did."
Thus Chalmers. Humphreys, the man-servant, gave the following account:
"The bell rang from Captain Brayton's room at half-past five. I
answered it at once myself, and Captain Brayton asked me at what hour
the post left. I replied that we sent the letters from the house to
the post-office in the village at six. He then asked me to return at
that hour and fetch those of his which would be ready. I returned
precisely at six, and I saw Captain Brayton lying in a heap upon the
rug in front of the fire. He was dead, and he held a revolver tightly
clenched in his hand. As I stepped over him, I smelt that something
was burning. He had shot himself through the heart, and his clothes
were singed, as if he had held the revolver close to his side."
These stories were repeated at the inquest, and at this particular
point in Humphreys' evidence the coroner asked a question:
"Did you recognise the revolver?"
"Not until Captain Brayton's hand was unclenched."
"But then you did?"
"Yes," said Humphreys.
The coroner pointed to the table on which a revolver lay.
"Is that the weapon?"
Humphreys took it up and looked at the handle, on which two initials
were engraved--"A. C."
"Yes," said the man. "I recognised it as Mr. Cranfield's. He kept it
in a drawer by his bedside."
No revolver was found amongst Captain Brayton's possessions.
It became clear that, while the three men were talking in the
billiard-room, Captain Brayton had gone to Cranfield's room, taken his
revolver, and killed himself with it. No evidence, however, was
produced which supplied a reason for Brayton's suicide. His affairs
were in good order, his means sufficient, his prospects of advancement
in his career sound. Nor was there a suggestion of any private
unhappiness. The tragedy, therefore, was entered in that list of
mysteries which are held insoluble.
"I might," said Chalmers, "perhaps resume the argument which Humphreys
interrupted in the billiard-room, with a better instance than any
which I induced--the instance of Captain Brayton."