[Illustration]
The Postmaster’s Daughter
by Louis Tracy
1916
Also by this author: _ Number Seventeen, The Wheel of Fortune, The Terms of
Surrender, The Wings of the Morning, &c._
Contents
I. The Face at the Window
II. P. C. Robinson “Takes a Line”
III. The Gathering Clouds
IV. A Cabal
V. The Seeds of Mischief
VI. Scotland Yard Takes a Hand
VII. “Alarums and Excursions”
VIII. An Interrupted Symposium
IX. He Whom the Cap Fits—
X. The Case Against Grant
XI. P. C. Robinson Takes Another Line
XII. Wherein Winter Gets To Work
XIII. Concerning Theodore Siddle
XIV. On Both Sides of the River
XV. A Matter of Heredity
XVI. Furneaux Makes a Successful Bid
XVII. An Official Housebreaker
XVIII. The Truth at Last
Chapter I.
The Face at the Window
John Menzies Grant, having breakfasted, filled his pipe, lit it, and
strolled out bare-headed into the garden. The month was June, that
glorious rose-month which gladdened England before war-clouds darkened
the summer sky. As the hour was nine o’clock, it is highly probable
that many thousands of men were then strolling out into many thousands
of gardens in precisely similar conditions; but, given youth, good
health, leisure, and a fair amount of money, it is even more probable
that few among the smaller number thus roundly favored by fortune
looked so perplexed as Grant.
Moreover, his actions were eloquent as words. A spacious French window
had been cut bodily out of the wall of an old-fashioned room, and was
now thrown wide to admit the flower-scented breeze. Between this window
and the right-hand angle of the room was a smaller window,
square-paned, high above the ground level, and deeply recessed—in fact
just the sort of window which one might expect to find in a farm-house
built two centuries ago, when light and air were rigorously excluded
from interiors. The two windows told the history of _The Hollies_ at a
glance. The little one had served the needs of a “best” room for
several generations of Sussex yeomen. Then had come some iconoclast who
hewed a big rectangle through the solid stone-work, converted the
oak-panelled apartment into a most comfortable dining-room, built a new
wing with a gable, changed a farm-yard into a flower-bordered lawn, and
generally played havoc with Georgian utility while carrying out a
determined scheme of landscape gardening.
Happily, the wrecker was content to let well enough alone after
enlarging the house, laying turf, and planting shrubs and flowers. He
found _The Hollies_ a ramshackle place, and left it even more so, but
with a new note of artistry and several unexpectedly charming vistas.
Thus, the big double window opened straight into an irregular garden
which merged insensibly into a sloping lawn bounded by a river-pool.
The bank on the other side of the stream rose sharply and was well
wooded. Above the crest showed the thatched roofs or red tiles of
Steynholme, which was a village in the time of William the Conqueror,
and has remained a village ever since. Frame this picture in flowering
shrubs, evergreens, a few choice firs, a copper beech, and some sturdy
oaks shadowing the lawn, and the prospect on a June morning might well
have led out into the open any young man with a pipe.
But John Menzies Grant seemed to have no eye for a scene that would
have delighted a painter. He turned to the light, scrutinized so
closely a strip of turf which ran close to the wall that he might have
been searching for a lost diamond, and then peered through the
lowermost left-hand pane of the small window into the room he had just
quitted.
The result of this peeping was remarkable in more ways than one.
A stout, elderly, red-faced woman, who had entered the room soon after
she heard Grant’s chair being moved, caught sight of the intent face.
She screamed loudly, and dropped a cup and saucer with a clatter on to
a Japanese tray.
Grant hurried back to the French window. In his haste he did not notice
a long shoot of a Dorothy Perkins rose which trailed across his path,
and it struck him smartly on the cheek.
“I’m afraid I startled you, Mrs. Bates,” he said, smiling so pleasantly
that no woman or child could fail to put trust in him.
“You did that, sir,” agreed Mrs. Bates, collapsing into the chair Grant
had just vacated.
Like most red-faced people, Mrs. Bates turned a bluish purple when
alarmed, and her aspect was so distressing now that Grant’s smile was
banished by a look of real concern.
“I’m very sorry,” he said contritely. “I had no notion you were in the
room. Shall I call Minnie?”
Minnie, it may be explained, was Mrs. Bates’s daughter and assistant,
the two, plus a whiskered Bates, gardener and groom, forming the
domestic establishment presided over by Grant.
“Nun-no, sir,” stuttered the housekeeper. “It’s stupid of me. But I’m
not so young as I was, an’ me heart jumps at little things.”
Grant saw that she was recovering, though slowly. He thought it best
not to make too much of the incident; but asked solicitously if he
might give her some brandy.
Mrs. Bates remarked that she was “not so bad as that,” rose valiantly,
and went on with her work. Her employer, who had gone into the garden
again, saw out of the tail of his eye that she vanished with a
half-laden tray. In a couple of minutes the daughter appeared, and
finished the slight task of clearing the table; meanwhile, Grant kept
away from the small window. Being a young man who cultivated the habit
of observation, he noticed that Minnie, too, cast scared glances at the
window. When the girl had finally quitted the room, he laughed in a
puzzled way.
“Am I dreaming, or are there visions about?” he murmured.
Urged, seemingly, by a sort of curiosity, he surveyed the room a second
time through the same pane of glass. Being tall, he had to stoop
slightly. Within, on the opposite side of the ledge, he saw the tiny
brass candlestick with its inch of candle which he had used over-night
while searching for a volume of Scott in the book-case lining the
neighboring wall. Somehow, this simplest of domestic objects brought a
thrill of recollection.
“Oh, dash it all!” he growled good-humoredly, “I’m getting nervy. I
must chuck this bad habit of working late, and use the blessed hours of
daylight.”
Yet, as he sauntered down the lawn toward the stream, he knew well that
he would do nothing of the sort. He loved that time of peace between
ten at night and one in the morning. His thoughts ran vagrom then.
Fantasies took shape under his pen which, in the cold light of morning,
looked unreal and nebulous, though he had the good sense to restrain
criticism within strict limits, and corrected style rather than matter.
He was a writer, an essayist with no slight leaven of the poet, and had
learnt early that the everyday world held naught in common with the
brooding of the soul.
But he was no long-haired dreamer of impossible things. Erect and
square-shouldered, he had passed through Sandhurst into the army, a
profession abandoned because of its humdrum nature, when an
unexpectedly “fat” legacy rendered him independent. He looked exactly
what he was, a healthy, clean-minded young Englishman, with a physique
that led to occasional bouts of fox-hunting and Alpine climbing, and a
taste in literature that brought about the consumption of midnight oil.
This latter is not a mere trope. Steynholme is far removed from such
modern “conveniences” as gas and electricity.
At present he had no more definite object in life than to watch the
trout rising in the pool. He held the fishing rights over half a mile
of a noted river, but, by force of the law of hospitality, as it were,
the stretch of water bordering the lawn was a finny sanctuary. Once, he
halted, and looked fixedly at a dormer window in a cottage just visible
above the trees on the opposite slope. Such a highly presentable young
man might well expect to find a dainty feminine form appearing just in
that place, and eke return the greeting of a waved hand. But the window
remained blank—windows refused to yield any information that
morning—and he passed on.
The lawn dipped gently to the water’s edge, until the close-clipped
turf gave way to pebbles and sand. In that spot the river widened and
deepened until its current was hardly perceptible in fine weather. When
the sun was in the west the trees and roofs of Steynholme were so
clearly reflected in the mirror of the pool that a photograph of the
scene needed close scrutiny ere one could determine whether or not it
was being held upside down. But the sun shone directly on the water
now, so the shelving bottom was visible, and Grant’s quick eye was
drawn to a rope trailing into the depths, and fastened to an iron
staple driven firmly into the shingle.
He was so surprised that he spoke aloud.
“What in the world is that?” he almost gasped; a premonition of evil
was so strong in him that he actually gazed in stupefaction at a blob
of water and a quick-spreading ring where a fat trout rose lazily in
midstream.
Somehow, too, he resisted the first impulse of the active side of his
temperament, and did not instantly tug at the rope.
Instead, he shouted:—
“Hi, Bates!”
An answering hail came from behind a screen of laurels on the right of
the house. There lay the stables, and Bates would surely be grooming
the cob which supplied a connecting link between _The Hollies_ and the
railway for the neighboring market-town.
Bates came, a sturdy block of a man who might have been hewn out of a
Sussex oak. His face, hands, and arms were the color of oak, and he
moved with a stiffness that suggested wooden joints.
Evidently, he expected an order for the dogcart, and stood stock still
when he reached the lawn. But Grant, who had gathered his wits,
summoned him with crooked forefinger, and Bates jerked slowly on.
“What hev’ ye done to yer face, sir?” he inquired.
Grant was surprised. He expected no such question.
“So far as I know, I’ve not been making any great alteration in it,” he
said.
“But it’s all covered wi’ blood,” came the disturbing statement.
A handkerchief soon gave evidence that Bates was not exaggerating.
Miss—or is it Madam?—Dorothy Perkins can scratch as well as look sweet,
and a thorn had opened a small vein in Grant’s cheek which bled to a
surprising extent.
“Oh, it is nothing,” he said. “I remember now—a rose shoot caught me as
I went back into the dining-room a moment ago. I shouted for you to
come and see _this._”
Soon the two were examining the rope and the staple.
“Now who put _that_ there?” said Bates, not asking a question but
rather stating a thesis.
“It was not here yesterday,” commented his master, accepting all that
Bates’s words implied.
“No, sir, that it wasn’t. I was a-cuttin’ the lawn till nigh bed-time,
an’ it wasn’t there then.”
Grant was himself again. He stooped and grabbed the rope.
“Suppose we solve the mystery,” he said.
“No need to dirty your hands, sir,” put in Bates. “Let I haul ’un in.”
In a few seconds the oaken tint in his face grew many shades lighter.
“Good Gawd!” he wheezed. At the end of the rope was the body of a
woman.
There are few more distressing objects than a drowned corpse. On that
bright June morning a dreadful apparition lost little of its grim
repulsiveness because the body was that of a young and good-looking
woman.
If one searched England it would be difficult to find two men of
differing temperaments less likely to yield to the stress of even the
most trying circumstance than Grant and Bates, yet, during some
agonized moments the one, of tried courage and fine mettle, was equally
horrified and shaken as the other, a gnarled and hard-grained rustic.
It was he from whom speech might least be expected who first found his
tongue. Bates, who had stooped, straightened himself slowly.
“By gum!” he said, “this be a bad business, Mr. Grant. Who is she?
She’s none of our Steynholme lasses.”
Still Grant uttered no word. He just looked in horror at the poor husk
of a woman who in life had undoubtedly been beautiful. She was well but
quietly dressed, and her clothing showed no signs of violence. The
all-night soaking in the river revealed some pitiful little feminine
secrets, such as a touch of make-up on lips and cheeks, and the dark
roots of abundant hair which had been treated chemically to lighten its
color. The eyes were closed, and for that Grant was conscious of a deep
thankfulness. Had those sightless eyes stared at him he felt he would
have cried aloud in terror. The firm, well-molded lips were open, as
though uttering a last protest against an untimely fate. Of course,
both men were convinced that murder had been done. Not only were arms
and body bound in a manner that was impossible of accomplishment by the
dead woman herself, but an ugly wound on the smooth forehead seemed to
indicate that she had been stunned or killed outright before being
flung into the river.
And then, the rope and the staple suggested an outlandish, maniacal
disposal of the victim. Here was no effort at concealment, but rather a
making sure, in most brutal and callous fashion, that early discovery
must be unavoidable.
The bucolic mind works in well-scored grooves. Receiving no assistance
from his master, Bates pulled the body a little farther up on the strip
of gravel so that it lay clear of the water.
“I mum fetch t’ polis,” he said.
The phrase, with its vivid significance, seemed to galvanize Grant into
a species of comprehension.
“Yes,” he agreed, speaking slowly, as though striving to measure the
effect of each word. “Yes, go for the police, Bates. This foul crime
must be inquired into, no matter who suffers. Go now. But first bring a
rug from the stable. You understand? Your wife, or Minnie, must not be
told till later. They must not see. Mrs. Bates is not so well to-day.”
“Not so well! Her ate a rare good breakfast for a sick ’un!”
Bates was recovering from the shock, and prepared once more to take an
interest in the minor features of existence. Among these he counted
ability to eat as a sure sign of continued well-being in man or beast.
Grant, too, was slowly regaining poise.
“I hardly know what I am saying,” he muttered. “At any rate, bring a
rug. I’ll mount guard till you return with the policeman. There can be
no doubt, I suppose, that this poor creature is dead.”
“Dead as a stone,” said Bates with conviction. “Why, her’s bin in there
hours,” and he nodded toward the water. “Besides, if I knows anythink
of a crack on t’head, her wur outed before she went into t’river....
But who i’ t’world can she be?”
“If you don’t fetch that rug I’ll go for it myself,” said Grant,
whereupon Bates made off.
He was soon back again with a carriage rug, which Grant helped him to
spread over the dripping body. Then he hastened to the village, taking
a path that avoided the house.
The lawn and river bank of _The Hollies_ could only be overlooked from
the steep wooded cliff opposite, and none but an adventurous boy would
ever think of climbing down that almost impassable rampart of rock,
brushwood, and tree-roots. At any rate, when left alone with the
ghastly evidence of a tragedy, Grant troubled only to satisfy himself
that no one was watching from the house. Assured on that point, he
lifted a corner of the rug, and, apparently, forced himself to
scrutinize the dead woman’s face. He seemed to search therein for some
reassuring token, but found none, because he shook his head, dropped
the rug, and walked a few paces dejectedly.
Then, hardly knowing what he was about, he relighted his pipe, but had
hardly put it in his mouth before he knocked out the tobacco.
Clearly, he was thinking hard, mapping out some line of conduct, and
the outlook must have been dark indeed, judging by his somber and
undecided aspect.
More than once he looked up at the attic window of the cottage which
had drawn his eyes before tragedy had come so swiftly to his very feet.
But, if he hoped to see anyone, he was disappointed, though, in the
event, it proved that his real fear was lest the person he half
expected to see should look out.
He was not disturbed in that way, however. Fish rose in the river;
birds sang in the trees; a water-wagtail skipped nimbly from rock to
rock in the shallows; honey-laden bees hummed past to the many hives in
the postmaster’s garden. These were the normal sights and sounds of a
June morning—that which was abnormal and almost grotesque in its horror
lay hidden beneath the carriage rug.
To and fro he walked in that trying vigil, carrying the empty pipe in
one hand while, with the other, he dabbed the handkerchief at the cut
on his face. He was aware of some singular change in the quality of the
sunlight pouring down on lawn and river and trees. Five minutes earlier
it had spread over the landscape a golden bloom of the tint of
champagne; now it was sharp and cold, a clear, penetrating radiance in
which colors were vivid and shadows black. He was in no mood to analyze
emotions, or he might have understood that the fierce throbbing of his
heart had literally thinned the blood in his veins and thus affected
even his sight. He only knew that in this crystal atmosphere the major
issues of life presented themselves with a new and crude force. At any
rate, he made up his mind that the course suggested by truth and honor
was the only one to follow, and that, in itself, was something gained.
By the time Bates returned, accompanied by the village policeman, and
two other men carrying a stretcher, Grant was calmer, more
self-contained, than he had been since that hapless body was dragged
from the depths. He was not irresponsive, therefore, to the aura of
official importance which enveloped the policeman; he sensed a certain
uneasiness in Bates; he even noted that the stretcher was part of the
stock in trade of Hobbs, the local butcher, and ordinarily bore the
carcase of a well-fed pig.
These details were helpful. Naturally, Bates had explained his errand,
and the law, in the person of the policeman, was prepared for all
eventualities.
“This is a bad business, Mr. Grant,” began the policeman, producing a
note-book, and moistening the tip of a lead pencil with his tongue.
Being a Sussex man, he used the same phrase as Bates. In fact, Grant
was greeted by it a score of times that day.
“Yes,” agreed Grant. “I had better tell you that I have recognized the
poor lady. Her name is Adelaide Melhuish. Her residence is in the
Regent’s Park district of London.”
Robinson, the policeman, permitted himself to look surprised. He was,
in fact, rather annoyed. Bates’s story had prepared him for a
first-rate detective mystery. It was irritating to have one of its
leading features cleared up so promptly.
“Oh,” he said, drawing a line under the last entry in the note-book,
and writing the date and hour in heavy characters beneath. “Married or
single?”
“Married, but separated from her husband when last I had news of her.”
“And when was that, sir?”
“Nearly three years ago.”
“And you have not seen her since?”
“No.”
“You didn’t see her last night?”
Grant positively started, but he looked at the policeman squarely.
“It is strange you should ask me that,” he said. “Last night, while
searching for a book, I saw a face at the window. It was that window,”
and four pairs of eyes followed his pointing finger. “The face, I now
believe, was that of the dead woman. At the moment, as it vanished
instantly, I persuaded myself that I was the victim of some trick of
the imagination. Still, I opened the other window, looked out and
listened, but heard or saw nothing or no one. As I say, I fancied I had
imagined that which was not. Now I know I was wrong.”
“About what o’clock would this be, Mr. Grant?”
“Shortly before eleven. I came in at a quarter past ten, and began to
work. After writing steadily for a little more than half an hour, I
wanted to consult a book, and lighted a candle which I keep for that
purpose. I found the book, and was about to blow out the candle when I
saw the face.”
Robinson wrote in his note-book:—
“Called to _The Hollies_ to investigate case of supposed murder. Body
of woman found in river. Mr. Grant, occupying _The Hollies_, says that
woman’s name is Adelaide Melhuish”—at this point he paused to ascertain
the spelling—“and he saw her face at a window of the house at 10.45
P.M., last night.”
“Well, sir, and what next?” he went on.
“It seems to me that the next thing is to have the unfortunate lady
removed to some more suitable place than the river bank,” said Grant,
rather impatiently. “My story can wait, and so can Bates’s. He knows
all that I know, and has probably told you already how we came to
discover the body. You can see for yourself that she must have been
murdered. It is an extraordinary, I may even say a phenomenal crime,
which certainly cannot be investigated here and now. I advise you to
have the body taken to the village mortuary, or such other place as
serves local needs in that respect, and summon a doctor. Then, if you
and an inspector will call here, I’ll give you all the information I
possess, which is very little, I may add.”
Robinson began solemnly to jot down a summary of Grant’s words, and
thereby stirred the owner of _The Hollies_ to a fury which was
repressed with difficulty. Realizing, however, the absolute folly of
expressing any resentment, Grant turned, and, without meaning it,
looked again in the direction of the cottage on the crest of the
opposite bank. This time a girl was leaning out of the dormer window.
She had shaded her eyes with a hand, because the sun was streaming into
her face, but when she saw that Grant was looking her way she waved a
handkerchief.
He fluttered his own blood-stained handkerchief in brief
acknowledgment, and wheeled about, only to find P. C. Robinson watching
him furtively, having suspended his note-taking for the purpose.