THE WRITING IN BLOOD
The long arm of coincidence was startlingly apparent in this instance.
Both men were so amazed at the terrible news fitting in so neatly, not
only with the subject of conversation, but with Mrs. Basket's
prophetic remark when the bell rang, that they looked at one another
dumbfounded. Mrs. Moxton stared at their motionless figures with
indignant eyes.
"Are you not coming?" she demanded vehemently, seizing the hand of
Ellis. "Don't I tell you my husband is dead!"
"I am coming, Mrs. Moxton," said Ellis, hurriedly. "But if he is dead
my presence will be useless. This is a case for the police."
If Mrs. Moxton was pale before she became even paler at this last
remark, and, shrinking back, spread out her hands with a terrified
gesture. "No, no, not the police! Why the police?"
"You say your husband has been murdered," cried Cass, with sudden
suspicion; "therefore the police must be called in at once. Who
murdered the man?"
"I don't know," murmured Mrs. Moxton. Then his imperious, suspicious
tone seemed to stir her indignation. She threw back her head
haughtily. "I don't know," she repeated deliberately. "My husband went
out this evening. I sat up for him as he promised to return about
midnight. Shortly after eleven"--here she glanced at the clock on the
mantelpiece--"I heard a cry, and thinking something was wrong I ran to
the door. There was someone moaning on the garden path. I went to see
who it was, and found my husband bleeding to death from a wound in the
back. He died a minute afterwards, and I came for you."
"How did you recognise your husband in the dark?"
"I--I had a candle," she replied, in a low voice and with hesitation.
"It's blowing awful," wheezed Mrs. Basket at the door, and the other
woman turned towards her abruptly. The landlady's full moon of a face
had suspicion written in every wrinkle. "Had you the carving-knife?"
she asked.
"The carving-knife?"
"Yes, the same as you frightened the telegraph boy with?"
"I had no carving-knife," returned Mrs. Moxton, haughtily. "What do
you mean by these questions?" She turned again to the men and burst
into furious speech. "Have I come to a lunatic asylum?" she cried.
"You talk, this woman talks, and I want help. Doctor, come! Come at
once! And you, sir, go for the police if it is necessary."
Ellis hastily threw on a cap, snatched up some needful things for a
wounded man, and followed Mrs. Moxton out of the house. Mrs. Basket
and Harry were left face to face with the same thought in their minds.
"What did I say about her 'aving the carving-knife, sir?"
"Yes, by Jove! And her talking of exploring with a lighted candle in
this wind!"
"She's afraid of the police, too, Mr. Cass," said Mrs. Basket, in
tragic tones. "She's done for him, sir."
"Well--she--might--No," cried Harry, rumpling his hair. "If she was
guilty she would not come for Ellis."
Mrs. Basket snorted in a disbelieving manner.
"Oh, wouldn't she, sir? You don't know the hussies women are. That
Mrs. Moxton's a deep 'un as ever was."
"Here," cried Cass, rummaging about for his cap, "I'm losing time. I
must go for the police at once."
"Come back and tell me if they takes her," shouted Mrs. Basket
after him with morbid glee. "I believe she's done it with the
carving-knife."
But Cass did not hear her, as the wind was high and he was already
some distance away. As he sped along the silent streets storm-clouds
were racing across the face of a watery moon, and a drizzle of rain
moistened his face. Being a reporter, Cass was friendly with
constables, and knew the station at Dukesfield well, having often gone
there to glean paragraphs. This time he went to give more terrible and
sensational news than he had ever received, and stumbled almost into
Inspector Drake's arms in his haste.
"Steady there," said Drake, gruffly, then recognising the agitated
face of Cass in the flaring gaslight, he added, in a tone of surprise:
"You, sir; whatever's come over you at this time of night?"
"Drake, there has been a murder at Myrtle Villa down the Jubilee Road,
leading to the brickfields. A man called Moxton has been stabbed. His
wife came for Dr. Ellis, and I ran on to tell you!"
The inspector heard this startling intelligence with a phlegm begotten
by twenty years' experience of similar reports. "Who done it, Mr.
Cass? Does the wife know?"
"No; she says she heard a cry, and ran out to find her husband dying
on the garden path. He died in her arms."
"Did she see anyone about?"
"I don't know. I never asked her. That is your business, Drake. Come
along, Ellis is with her and the dead man."
"Oh, he is dead, then?" remarked the inspector, leisurely putting on
his cap and cloak.
"So Mrs. Moxton says. Come!"
Leaving the station in charge of an underling, Drake called a
policeman, and followed Cass into the windy night. The two, with the
constable tailing after them, marched military fashion along several
deserted and lampless streets, until they turned into the Jubilee
Road, a dark thoroughfare of empty, roofless houses and incomplete
pavements. Civilisation had not yet established order in this region,
and the street in embryo ended suddenly on the verge of naked lands.
Beyond twinkled the red and green signal lights of the railway, and
between, piles of bricks were heaped in Babylon-like mounds. Myrtle
Villa was the last house on the right abutting on this untrimmed
plain; and the three men were guided to it by a winking light in the
garden. It was that of a lantern held by Mrs. Moxton, and shed yellow
rays on the face of the dead man. Ellis, kneeling beside the corpse,
completed a startling and dramatic picture.
"Oh!" cried the woman, with something like dismay, as the light
revealed uniforms, "the police!"
"Yes, ma'am," said Drake, glancing sharply at her white cheeks, "we
have come to see about this matter. Is the gentleman dead, doctor?"
"I should think so. Look here!" Ellis rolled over the body and showed
a wound under the left shoulder-blade, round which the blood had
coagulated. "The poor devil must have died within ten minutes after
the blow was struck."
"He died in my arms," moaned Mrs. Moxton. "Oh, Edgar!"
"Did he tell you who stabbed him, ma'am?"
"No; he never spoke a word."
The inspector took the lantern from her shaking hand, and swung it
round between corpse and gate. The path was of beaten gravel, and no
footmarks were visible; but here and there a stain of blood soaked
into the ground, and from this Drake drew his conclusions.
"He was stabbed from behind while opening the gate," he said
judicially, "and fell forward into the garden. Look at this stain, and
this; the poor gentleman had strength enough to crawl these few yards.
Wanted to reach the door, no doubt. What brought you out, ma'am?"
"His cry! I was waiting up for him in the back bedroom, and I heard a
shriek. At first I was afraid, as this place is very lonely. Then I
came to the door with a candle, and ran down the path. Edgar was
moaning dreadfully, and died almost immediately afterwards."
"The wind is high, ma'am?"
Mrs. Moxton understood his inference directly. "It blew out the
candle," she explained; "but I ran from the door, shading it with my
hand, and as there was a lull for a moment, I had just time to catch a
glimpse of his face and recognise my husband."
"About what time was this, ma'am?"
"Some time after eleven. I can't say when. I did not look at my
watch."
"It was exactly half-past eleven when you entered my house," said
Ellis.
"Then Edgar was murdered between eleven and half-past. I wound up my
watch for the night at eleven, and at that time I had not heard the
cry. I ran all the way to your house."
"That would take five minutes, more or less," said Cass.
"And the man must have lived some minutes after the blow, to crawl
this distance," observed the inspector, measuring the space with his
eye. "Did you come out at once, ma'am?"
"No!" replied Mrs. Moxton, with some hesitation. "I was afraid. I
heard the cry and waited for a time, thinking I was mistaken. It was
about ten minutes, more or less, before I summoned up courage to open
the front door."
"On the whole," said Ellis, "it would seem that the murder was
committed at a quarter past eleven. Well, Mr. Drake, what is to be
done?"
"Nothing can be done until the morning," replied Drake. "The man who
did this is no doubt far enough away by this time."
"A man!" cried Mrs. Moxton. "Do you think a man did it?"
The inspector was on the alert immediately. "Have you any reason to
think that a woman killed him?" he asked sharply.
"I! No. I cannot guess who committed the murder." Mrs. Moxton seemed
anxious, nervous, and sorry she had said so much. "Shall we take the
body into the house, sir?" she asked in a low tone.
"It will be as well, ma'am, and I shall leave this constable to look
after it for the night."
"Thank you, thank you," said the widow, shuddering. "I should be
afraid to stay by myself."
"Let me stay also!" said Ellis, moved by her beauty and distress.
"Oh, do, do. Would you mind?"
"I'll stay," replied the doctor, briefly, and assisted the others to
lift the body. They carried it up the path, Mrs. Moxton lighting them
onward with the lantern. It was a strange and gruesome procession
pacing through the black and stormy night; and to imaginative Cass the
house and garden, commonplace as they were, reeked of the shambles.
When the body was laid on the bed, Drake gave some directions to his
subordinate, and departed with Cass. Ellis and the policeman remained
behind, and the doctor's first care was to give Mrs. Moxton a bromide
tabloid.
"You are worn out with anxiety and nerves," he said. "I saw that at my
house, and so brought these tabloids with me. Lie down and sleep."
"Shall I ever sleep again?" sighed Mrs. Moxton. However, she
obediently did as she was told, and then the men turned their
attention to the corpse.
It was that of a lean young man with scanty light hair, and a thin,
fair moustache. The lines of dissipation, the marks of premature
ageing from debauchery, had been smoothed out by death, and the white
face was as unwrinkled and placid as a waxen mask. The body was
clothed in evening dress, with a light-coloured overcoat, and the
constable pointed out to Ellis that the watch, chain, studs and
links--all costly--were untouched.
"Robbers didn't bring about this murder," said the policeman.
They undressed the body slowly. As Ellis drew off the shirt, the cuffs
of which were dappled with blood, he noticed strange marks on the left
arm. From wrist to elbow, on the inner part of the arm, various signs
appeared on the white skin. These were rudely streaked with blood, and
Ellis afterwards copied them into his note-book, thinking they might
be useful later on, as indeed they proved to be.
"What do these signs mean?" he asked the policeman.
"I dunno, sir; but he did 'em hisself. See, doctor," and he lifted the
right hand of the corpse.
Ellis looked eagerly and saw that the forefinger of the hand was black
with dried blood.