THE RED REDMAYNES
by
EDEN PHILLPOTTS
New York
The MacMillan Company
1922
BY EDEN PHILLPOTTS
EUDOCIA
EVANDER
PLAIN SONG
GREEN ALLEYS
ORPHAN DINAH
MISER'S MONEY
THE GREY ROOM
CHILDREN OF MEN
A SHADOW PASSES
STORM IN A TEACUP
PAN AND THE TWINS
THE BANKS OF COLNE
CHRONICLES OF SAINT TID
THE HUMAN BOY AND THE WAR
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. THE RUMOUR
II. THE PROBLEM STATED
III. THE MYSTERY
IV. A CLUE
V. ROBERT REDMAYNE IS SEEN
VI. ROBERT REDMAYNE IS HEARD
VII. THE COMPACT
VIII. DEATH IN THE CAVE
IX. A PIECE OF WEDDING CAKE
X. ON GRIANTE
XI. MR. PETER GANNS
XII. PETER TAKES THE HELM
XIII. THE SUDDEN RETURN TO ENGLAND
XIV. REVOLVER AND PICKAXE
XV. A GHOST
XVI. THE LAST OF THE REDMAYNES
XVII. THE METHODS OF PETER GANNS
XVIII. CONFESSION
XIX. A LEGACY FOR PETER GANNS
CHAPTER I
THE RUMOUR
Every man has a right to be conceited until he is famous--so it is
said; and perhaps unconsciously, Mark Brendon shared that opinion.
His self-esteem was not, however, conspicuous, although he held that
only a second-rate man is diffident. At thirty-five years of age he
already stood high in the criminal investigation department of the
police. He was indeed about to receive an inspectorship, well earned
by those qualities of imagination and intuition which, added to the
necessary endowment of courage, resource, and industry, had created
his present solid success.
A substantial record already stood behind him, and during the war
certain international achievements were added to his credit. He felt
complete assurance that in ten years he would retire from government
employ and open that private and personal practice which it was his
ambition to establish.
And now Mark was taking holiday on Dartmoor, devoting himself to
his hobby of trout fishing and accepting the opportunity to survey
his own life from a bird's-eye point of view, measure his
achievement, and consider impartially his future, not only as a
detective but as a man.
Mark had reached a turning point, or rather a point from which new
interests and new personal plans were likely to present themselves
upon the theatre of a life hitherto devoted to one drama alone.
Until now he had existed for his work only. Since the war he had
been again occupied with routine labour on cases of darkness, doubt,
and crime, once more living only that he might resolve these
mysteries, with no personal interest at all outside his grim
occupation. He had been a machine as innocent of any inner life, any
spiritual ambition or selfish aim, as a pair of handcuffs.
This assiduity and single-hearted devotion had brought their
temporal reward. He was now at last in position to enlarge his
outlook, consider higher aspects of life, and determine to be a man
as well as a machine.
He found himself with five thousand pounds saved as a result of some
special grants during the war and a large honorarium from the French
Government. He was also in possession of a handsome salary and the
prospect of promotion, when a senior man retired at no distant date.
Too intelligent to find all that life had to offer in his work
alone, he now began to think of culture, of human pleasures, and
those added interests and responsibilities that a wife and family
would offer.
He knew very few women--none who awakened any emotion of affection.
Indeed at five-and-twenty he had told himself that marriage must be
ruled out of his calculations, since his business made life
precarious and was also of a nature to be unduly complicated if a
woman shared it with him. Love, he had reasoned, might lessen his
powers of concentration, blunt his extraordinary special faculties,
perhaps even introduce an element of calculation and actual
cowardice before great alternatives, and so shadow his powers and
modify his future success. But now, ten years later, he thought
otherwise, found himself willing to receive impressions, ready even
to woo and wed if the right girl should present herself. He dreamed
of some well-educated woman who would lighten his own ignorance of
many branches of knowledge.
A man in this receptive mood is not asked as a rule to wait long for
the needful response; but Brendon was old-fashioned and the women
born of the war attracted him not at all. He recognized their fine
qualities and often their distinction of mind; yet his ideal struck
backward to another and earlier type--the type of his own mother
who, as a widow, had kept house for him until her death. She was his
feminine ideal--restful, sympathetic, trustworthy--one who always
made his interests hers, one who concentrated upon his life rather
than her own and found in his progress and triumphs the salt of her
own existence.
Mark wanted, in truth, somebody who would be content to merge
herself in him and seek neither to impress her own personality upon
his, nor develop an independent environment. He had wit to know a
mother's standpoint must be vastly different from that of any wife,
no matter how perfect her devotion; he had experience enough of
married men to doubt whether the woman he sought was to be found in
a post-war world; yet he preserved and permitted himself a hope that
the old-fashioned women still existed, and he began to consider
where he might find such a helpmate.
He was somewhat overweary after a strenuous year; but to Dartmoor
he always came for health and rest when opportunity offered, and
now he had returned for the third time to the Duchy Hotel at
Princetown--there to renew old friendships and amuse himself on the
surrounding trout streams through the long days of June and July.
Brendon enjoyed the interest he awakened among other fishermen and,
though he always went upon his expeditions alone, usually joined the
throng in the smoking-room after dinner. Being a good talker he
never failed of an audience there. But better still he liked an hour
sometimes with the prison warders. For the convict prison that
dominated that grey smudge in the heart of the moors known as
Princetown held many interesting and famous criminals, more than one
of whom had been "put through" by him, and had to thank Brendon's
personal industry and daring for penal servitude. Upon the prison
staff were not a few men of intelligence and wide experience who
could tell the detective much germane to his work. The psychology of
crime never paled in its intense attraction for Brendon and many a
strange incident, or obscure convict speech, related without comment
to him by those who had witnessed, or heard them, was capable of
explanation in the visitor's mind.
He had found an unknown spot where some good trout dwelt and on an
evening in mid-June he set forth to tempt them. He had discovered
certain deep pools in a disused quarry fed by a streamlet, that
harboured a fish or two heavier than most of those surrendered daily
by the Dart and Meavy, the Blackabrook and the Walkham.
Foggintor Quarry, wherein lay these preserves, might be approached
in two ways. Originally broken into the granite bosom of the moor
for stone to build the bygone war prison of Princetown, a road still
extended to the deserted spot and joined the main throughfare half a
mile distant. A house or two--dwellings used by old-time
quarrymen--stood upon this grass-grown track; but the huge pit was
long ago deserted. Nature had made it beautiful, although the
wonderful place was seldom appreciated now and only wild creatures
dwelt therein.
Brendon, however, came hither by a direct path over the moors.
Leaving Princetown railway station upon his left hand he set his
face west where the waste heaved out before him dark against a blaze
of light from the sky. The sun was setting and a great glory of
gold, fretted with lilac and crimson, burned over the distant
earth, while here and there the light caught crystals of quartz in
the granite boulders and flashed up from the evening sobriety of the
heath.
Against the western flame appeared a figure carrying a basket. Mark
Brendon, with thoughts on the evening rise of the trout, lifted his
face at a light footfall. Whereupon there passed by him the fairest
woman he had ever known, and such sudden beauty startled the man and
sent his own thoughts flying. It was as though from the desolate
waste there had sprung a magical and exotic flower; or that the
sunset lights, now deepening on fern and stone, had burned together
and became incarnate in this lovely girl. She was slim and not very
tall. She wore no hat and the auburn of her hair, piled high above
her forehead, tangled the warm sunset beams and burned like a halo
round her head. The colour was glorious, that rare but perfect
reflection of the richest hues that autumn brings to the beech and
the bracken. And she had blue eyes--blue as the gentian. Their size
impressed Brendon.
He had only known one woman with really large eyes, and she was a
criminal. But this stranger's bright orbs seemed almost to dwarf her
face. Her mouth was not small, but the lips were full and delicately
turned. She walked quickly with a good stride and her slight,
silvery skirts and rosy, silken jumper showed her figure clearly
enough--her round hips and firm, girlish bosom. She swung along--a
flash of joy on little twinkling feet that seemed hardly to touch
the ground.
Her eyes met his for a moment with a frank, trustful expression,
then she had passed. Waiting half a minute, Brendon turned to look
again. He heard her singing with all the light-heartedness of youth
and he caught a few notes as clear and cheerful as a grey bird's.
Then, still walking quickly, she dwindled into one bright spot upon
the moor, dipped into an undulation, and was gone--a creature of the
heath and wild lands whom it seemed impossible to imagine pent
within any dwelling.
The vision made Mark pensive, as sudden beauty will, and he wondered
about the girl. He guessed her to be a visitor--one of a party,
perhaps, possibly here for the day alone. He went no farther than to
guess that she must certainly be betrothed. Such an exquisite
creature seemed little likely to have escaped love. Indeed love and
a spirit of happiness were reflected from her eyes and in her song.
He speculated on her age and guessed she must be eighteen. He then,
by some twist of thought, considered his personal appearance. We are
all prone to put the best face possible upon such a matter, but
Brendon lived too much with hard facts to hoodwink himself on that
or any other subject. He was a well-modelled man of great physical
strength, and still agile and lithe for his age; but his hair was an
ugly straw colour and his clean-shorn, pale face lacked any sort of
distinction save an indication of moral purpose, character, and
pugnacity. It was a face well suited to his own requirements, for he
could disguise it easily; but it was not a face calculated to charm
or challenge any woman--a fact he knew well enough.
Tramping forward now, the detective came to a great crater that
gaped on the hillside and stood above the dead quarry workings of
Foggintor. Underneath him opened a cavity with sides two hundred
feet high. Its peaks and precipices fell, here by rough, giant
steps, here stark and sheer over broad faces of granite, where only
weeds and saplings of mountain ash and thorn could find a foothold.
The bottom was one vast litter of stone and fern, where foxgloves
nodded above the masses of debris and wild things made their homes.
Water fell over many a granite shelf and in the desolation lay great
and small pools.
Brendon began to descend, where a sheep track wound into the pit. A
Dartmoor pony and her foal galloped away through an entrance
westerly. At one point a wide moraine spread fanwise from above into
the cup, and here upon this slope of disintegrated granite more
water dripped and tinkled from overhanging ledges of stone. Rills
ran in every direction and, from the spot now reached by the
sportsman, the deserted quarry presented a bewildering confusion of
huge boulders, deep pits, and mighty cliff faces heaving up to
scarps and counter-scarps. Brendon had found the guardian spirit of
the place on a former visit and now he lifted his voice and cried
out.
"Here I am!" he said.
"Here I am!" cleanly answered Echo hid in the granite.
"Mark Brendon!"
"Mark Brendon!"
"Welcome!"
"Welcome!"
Every syllable echoed back crisp and clear, just tinged with that
something not human that gave fascination to the reverberated words.
A great purple stain seemed to fill the crater and night's wine rose
up within it, while still along the eastern crest of the pit there
ran red sunset light to lip the cup with gold. Mark, picking his way
through the huddled confusion, proceeded to the extreme breadth of
the quarry, fifty yards northerly, and stood above two wide, still
pools in the midst. They covered the lowest depth of the old
workings, shelved to a rough beach on one side and, upon the other,
ran thirty feet deep, where the granite sprang sheer in a precipice
from the face of the little lake. Here crystal-clear water sank into
a dim, blue darkness. The whole surface of the pools was, however,
within reach of any fly fisherman who had a rod of necessary
stiffness and the skill to throw a long line. Trout moved and here
and there circles of light widened out on the water and rippled to
the cliff beyond. Then came a heavier rise and from beneath a great
rock, that heaved up from the midst of the smaller pool, a good fish
took a little white moth which had fluttered within reach.
Mark set about his sport, yet felt that a sort of unfamiliar
division had come into his mind and, while he brought two tiny-eyed
flies from a box and fastened them to the hairlike leader he always
used, there persisted the thought of the auburn girl--her eyes blue
as April--her voice so bird-like and untouched with human
emotion--her swift, delicate tread.
He began to fish as the light thickened; but he only cast once or
twice and then decided to wait half an hour. He grounded his rod and
brought a brier pipe and a pouch of tobacco from his pocket. The
things of day were turning to slumber; but still there persisted a
clinking sound, uttered monotonously from time to time, which the
sportsman supposed to be a bird. It came from behind the great
acclivities that ran opposite his place by the pools. Brendon
suddenly perceived that it was no natural noise but arose from some
human activity. It was, in fact, the musical note of a mason's
trowel, and when presently it ceased, he was annoyed to hear heavy
footsteps in the quarry--a labourer he guessed.
No labourer appeared, however. A big, broad man approached him, clad
in a Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers and a red waistcoat with
gaudy brass buttons. He had entered at the lower mouth of the
quarries and was proceeding to the northern exit, whence the little
streamlet that fed the pools came through a narrow pass.
The stranger stopped as he saw Brendon, straddled his great legs,
took a cigar from his mouth and spoke.
"Ah! You've found 'em, then?"
"Found what?" asked the detective.
"Found these trout. I come here for a swim sometimes. I've wondered
why I never saw a rod in this hole. There are a dozen half pounders
there and possibly some bigger ones."
It was Mark's instinctive way to study all fellow creatures with
whom he came in contact. He had an iron memory for faces. He looked
up now and observed the rather remarkable features of the man before
him. His scrutiny was swift and sure; yet had he guessed the
tremendous significance of his glance, or with proleptic vision seen
what this being was to mean during the years of his immediate
future, it is certain that he would have intensified his inspection
and extended the brief limits of their interview.
He saw a pair of broad shoulders and a thick neck over which hung a
square, hard jaw and a determined chin. Then came a big mouth and
the largest pair of mustaches Brendon remembered to have observed on
any countenance. They were almost grotesque; but the stranger was
evidently proud of them, for he twirled them from time to time and
brought the points up to his ears. They were of a foxy red, and
beneath them flashed large, white teeth when the big man talked in
rather grating tones. He suggested one on very good terms with
himself--a being of passionate temperament and material mind. His
eyes were grey, small, set rather wide apart, with a heavy nose
between. His hair was a fiery red, cut close, and of a hue yet more
violent than his mustaches. Even the fading light could not kill his
rufous face.
The big man appeared friendly, though Brendon heartily wished him
away.
"Sea fishing's my sport," he said. "Conger and cod, pollack and
mackerel--half a boat load--that's sport. That means tight lines and
a thirst afterward."
"I expect it does."
"But this bally place seems to bewitch people," continued the big
man. "What is it about Dartmoor? Only a desert of hills and stones
and two-penny half-penny streams a child can walk across; and
yet--why you'll hear folk blether about it as though heaven would
only be a bad substitute."
The other laughed. "There is a magic here. It gets into your blood."
"So it does. Even a God-forgotten hole like Princetown with nothing
to see but the poor devils of convicts. A man I know is building
himself a bungalow out here. He and his wife will be just as happy
as a pair of wood pigeons--at least they think so."
"I heard a trowel clinking."
"Yes, I lend a hand sometimes when the workmen are gone. But think
of it--to turn your back on civilization and make yourself a home in
a desert!"
"Might do worse--if you've got no ambitions."
"Yes--ambition is not their strong point. They think love's
enough--poor souls. Why don't you fish?"
"Waiting for it to get a bit darker."
"Well, so long. Take care you don't catch anything that'll pull you
in."
Laughing at his joke and making another echo ring sharply over the
still face of the water, the red man strode off through the gap
fifty yards distant. Then in the stillness Mark heard the purr of a
machine. He had evidently departed upon a motor bicycle to the main
road half a mile distant.
When he was gone Brendon rose and strolled down to the other
entrance of the quarry that he might see the bungalow of which the
stranger had spoken. Leaving the great pit he turned right-handed
and there, in a little hollow facing southwest, he found the
building. It was as yet far from complete. The granite walls now
stood six feet high and they were of remarkable thickness. The plan
indicated a dwelling of six rooms and Brendon perceived that the
house would have no second story. An acre round about had been
walled, but as yet the boundaries were incomplete. Magnificent views
swept to the west and south. Brendon's rare sight could still
distinguish Saltash Bridge spanning the waters above Plymouth, where
Cornwall heaved up against the dying afterglow of the west. It was a
wonderful place in which to dwell, and the detective speculated as
to the sort of people who would be likely to lift their home in this
silent wilderness.
He guessed that they must have wearied of cities, or of their fellow
creatures. Perhaps they were disappointed and disillusioned with
life and so desired to turn their backs upon its gregarious
features, evade its problems, as far as possible, escape its shame
and follies, and live here amid these stern realities which promised
nothing, yet were full of riches for a certain order of mankind. He
judged that the couple, who designed to dwell beside the silent
hollow of Foggintor, must have outlived much and reached an attitude
of mind that desired no greater boon than solitude in the lap of
nature. Such people could only be middle-aged, he told himself. Yet
he remembered the big man had said that the pair felt "love was
enough." That meant romance still active and alive, whatever their
ages might be.
The day grew very dim and the fret of light and shadow died off the
earth, leaving all vague and vast and featureless. Brendon returned
to his sport and found a small "coachman" fly sufficiently
destructive. The two pools yielded a dozen trout, of which he kept
six and returned the rest to the water. His best three fish all
weighed half a pound.
Resolved to pay the pools another visit, Mark made an end of his
sport and chose to return by road rather than venture the walk over
the rough moor in darkness. He left the quarry at the gap, passed
the half dozen cottages that stood a hundred yards beyond it, and
so, presently, regained the main road between Princetown and
Tavistock. Tramping back under the stars, his thoughts drifted to
the auburn girl of the moor. He was seeking to recollect how she had
been dressed. He remembered everything about her with extraordinary
vividness, from the crown of her glowing hair to her twinkling feet,
in brown shoes with steel or silver buckles; but he could not
instantly see her garments. Then they came back to him--the
rose-coloured jumper and the short, silvery skirts.
Twice afterward, during the evening hour, Brendon again tramped to
Foggintor, but he was not rewarded by any glimpse of the girl; but
as the picture of her dimmed a little, there happened a strange and
apparently terrible thing, and in common with everybody else his
thoughts were distracted. To the detective's hearty annoyance and
much against his will, there confronted him a professional problem.
Though the sudden whisper of murder that winged with amazing speed
through that little, uplifted church-town was no affair of his,
there fell out an incident which quickly promised to draw him into
it and end his holiday before the time.
Four evenings after his first fishing expedition to the quarries, he
devoted a morning to the lower waters of the Meavy River; at the end
of that day, not far short of midnight, when glasses were empty and
pipes knocked out, half a dozen men, just about to retire, heard a
sudden and evil report.
Will Blake, "Boots" at the Duchy Hotel, was waiting to extinguish
the lights, and seeing Brendon he said:
"There's something in your line happened, master, by the look of it.
A pretty bobbery to-morrow."
"A convict escaped, Will?" asked the detective, yawning and longing
for bed. "That's about the only fun you get up here, isn't it?"
"Convict escaped? No--a man done in seemingly. Mr. Pendean's
uncle-in-law have slaughtered Mr. Pendean by the looks of it."
"What did he want to do that for?" asked Brendon without emotion.
"That's for clever men like you to find out," answered Will.
"And who is Mr. Pendean?"
"The gentleman what's building the bungalow down to Foggintor."
Mark started. The big red man flashed to his mind complete in every
physical feature. He described him and Will Blake replied:
"That's the chap that's done it. That's the gentleman's
uncle-in-law!"
Brendon went to bed and slept no worse for the tragedy. Nor, when
morning came and every maid and man desired to tell him all they
knew, did he show the least interest. When Milly knocked with his
hot water and drew up his blind, she judged that nobody could
appreciate the event better than a famous detective.
"Oh, sir--such a fearful thing--" she began. But he cut her short.
"Now, Milly, don't talk shop. I haven't come to Dartmoor to catch
murderers, but to catch trout. What's the weather like?"
"'Tis foggy and soft; and Mr. Pendean--poor dear soul--"
"Go away, Milly. I don't want to hear anything about Mr. Pendean."
"That big red devil of a man--
"Nor anything about the big red devil, either. If it's soft, I
shall try the leat this morning."
Milly stared at him with much disappointment.
"God's goodness!" she said. "You can go off fishing--a professed
murder catcher like you--and a man killed under your nose you may
say!"
"It isn't my job. Now, clear out. I want to get up."
"Well, I never!" murmured Milly and departed in great astonishment.
But Brendon was not to enjoy the freedom that he desired in this
matter. He ordered sandwiches, intending to beat a hasty retreat and
get beyond reach; then at half past nine, he emerged into a dull and
lowering morn. Fine mist was in the air and a heavy fog hid the
hills. There seemed every probability of a wet day and from a
fisherman's point of view the conditions promised sport. He was just
slipping on a raincoat and about to leave the hotel when Will Blake
appeared and handed him a letter. He glanced at it, half inclined to
stick the missive in the hall letter rack and leave perusal until
his return, but the handwriting was a woman's and did not lack for
distinction and character. He felt curious and, not associating the
incident with the rumoured crime, set down his rod and creel, opened
the note, and read what was written:
"3 Station Cottages, Princetown.
"DEAR SIR: The police have told me that you are in Princetown,
and it seems as though Providence had sent you. I fear that I
have no right to seek your services directly, but if you can
answer the prayer of a heartbroken woman and give her the
benefit of your genius in this dark moment, she would be
unspeakably thankful.
"Faithfully yours,
JENNY PENDEAN."
Mark Brendon murmured "damn" gently under his breath. Then he turned
to Will.
"Where is Mrs. Pendean's house?" he asked.
"In Station Cottages, just before you come to the prison woods,
sir."
"Run over, then, and say I'll call in half an hour."
"There!" Will grinned. "I told 'em you'd never keep out of it!"
He was gone and Brendon read the letter again, studied its neat
caligraphy, and observed that a tear had blotted the middle of the
sheet. Once more he said "damn" to himself, dropped his fishing
basket and rod, turned up the collar of his mackintosh, and walked
to the police station, where he heard a little of the matter in hand
from a constable and then asked for permission to use the telephone.
In five minutes he was speaking to his own chief at Scotland Yard,
and the familiar cockney voice of Inspector Harrison came over the
two hundred odd miles that separated the metropolis of convicts from
the metropolis of the world.
"Man apparently murdered here, inspector. Chap who is thought to
have done it disappeared. Widow wants me to take up case. I'm
unwilling to do so; but it looks like duty." So spoke Brendon.
"Right. If it looks like duty, do it. Let me hear again to-night.
Halfyard, chief at Princetown, is an old friend of mine. Very good
man. Good-bye."
Mark then learned that Inspector Halfyard was already at Foggintor.
"I'm on this," said Mark to the constable. "I'll come in again. Tell
the inspector to expect me at noon for all details. I'm going to see
Mrs. Pendean now."
The policeman saluted. He knew Brendon very well by sight.
"I hope it won't knock a hole in your holiday, sir. But I reckon it
won't. It's all pretty plain sailing by the look of it."
"Where's the body?"
"That's what we don't know yet, Mr. Brendon; and that's what only
Robert Redmayne can tell us by the look of it."
The detective nodded. Then he sought No. 3, Station Cottages.
The little row of attached houses ran off at right angles to the
high street of Princetown. They faced northwest, and immediately in
front of them rose the great, tree-clad shoulder of North Hessory
Tor. The woods ascended steeply and a stone wall ran between them
and the dwellings beneath.
Brendon knocked at No. 3 and was admitted by a thin, grey-haired
woman who had evidently been shedding tears. He found himself in a
little hall decorated with many trophies of fox hunting. There were
masks and brushes and several specimens of large Dartmoor foxes, who
had run their last and now stood stuffed in cases hung upon the
walls.
"Do I speak to Mrs. Pendean?" asked Brendon; but the old woman shook
her head.
"No, sir. I'm Mrs. Edward Gerry, widow of the famous Ned Gerry, for
twenty years Huntsman of the Dartmoor Foxhounds. Mr. and Mrs.
Pendean were--are--I mean she is my lodger."
"Is she ready to see me?"
"She's cruel hard hit, poor lady. What name, sir?"
"Mr. Mark Brendon."
"She hoped you'd come. But go gentle with her. 'Tis a fearful ordeal
for any innocent person to have to talk to you, sir."
Mrs. Gerry opened a door upon the right hand of the entrance.
"The great Mr. Brendon be here, Mrs. Pendean," she said; then
Brendon walked in and the widow shut the door behind him.
Jenny Pendean rose from her chair by the table where she was writing
letters and Brendon saw the auburn girl of the sunset.