P. C. Robinson “Takes a Line”
“It will help me a lot, sir,” he said, “if you tell me now what you
know about this matter. If, as seems more than likely, murder has been
done, I don’t want to lose a minute in starting my inquiries. In a case
of this sort I find it best to take a line, and stick to it.”
His tone was respectful but firm. Evidently, P. C. Robinson was not
one to be trifled with. Moreover, for a sleuth whose maximum
achievement hitherto had been the successful prosecution of a poultry
thief, it was significant that the unconscious irony of “a case of this
sort” should have been lost on him.
“Do you really insist on conducting your investigation while the body
is lying here?” demanded Grant, deliberately turning his back on the
girl in the distant cottage.
“Not that, sir—not altogether—but I must really ask you to clear up one
or two points now.”
“For goodness’ sake, what are they?”
“Well, sir, in the first place, how did you come to find the body?”
“I walked out into the garden after finishing breakfast a few minutes
ago, and noticed the rope attached to the staple, just as you see it
now.”
“Did you walk straight here?”
“No. Not exactly. I was—er—curious about the face I saw, or thought I
saw, last night, and looked into the room through the same window. By
doing so I scared Mrs. Bates, who was clearing the table, and she
screamed—”
“Her would, too,” put in Bates. “Her’d take ’ee for Owd Ben’s ghost.”
“You shut up, Bates,” said the policeman. “Don’t interrupt Mr. Grant.”
Grant was conscious of an undercurrent of suspicion in the constable’s
manner. He was wroth with the man, but recognized that he had to deal
with narrow-minded self-importance, so contrived again to curb his
temper.
“I am not acquainted with old Ben or his ghost,” he said quietly. “I
can only tell you that I went inside to reassure Mrs. Bates, and then
strolled slowly to this very spot. Naturally, I could not miss the rope
and the staple. To my mind, it was not intended that I or anyone else
should miss them. I regarded them as so peculiar that I shouted for
Bates. He came at once, and drew the body out of the water.”
“And you recognized the dead woman as the one you saw last night?”
“Yes.”
“At about ten minutes to eleven?”
“Yes.”
“Is it likely, sir, that any other person saw her in these grounds a
bit earlier?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, sir, I can’t put it much plainer. Could anybody else have seen
her here, say about 10.15?”
Grant met the policeman’s inquiring glance squarely before he answered.
“It is possible, of course,” he said, “but most unlikely.”
“Were you alone here at that hour?”
Again Grant sought and held that inquisitive gaze, held it until
Robinson affected to consult his notes. There was a moment of tense
silence. Then the reply came with an icy stubbornness that was not to
be denied.
“I decline absolutely to be cross-examined about my movements. If you
are unable or unwilling to order the removal of the body, I’ll
telegraph to the chief of police at Knolesworth, and ask him to act.
Further, I shall request Dr. Foxton to examine the poor lady’s
injuries. It strikes me as a monstrous proceeding that you should
attempt to record my evidence at this moment, and I refuse to become a
party to it.”
“Now, then, Robinson, stop yer Sherlock Holmes work, an’ help me to
lift this poor woman on to the stretcher,” said Bates gruffly.
The policeman’s red face grew a shade deeper with annoyance, but he had
the sense to avoid a scene. He was not popular in the village, and was
well aware that the two rustics pressed into service as
stretcher-bearers would joyfully retail the fact that he had been “set
down a peg or two by Mr. Grant.”
“I’ll do all that’s necessary in that way, sir,” he said stiffly. “I
suppose you have no objection to my askin’ if you noticed any strange
footprints on the ground hereabouts?”
“That was the first thing I looked for, both here and outside the
window—the latter, of course, for another reason. I found none. These
stones would show no signs. The ground is so dry that even the five men
now present leave no traces, but I remember seeing in the bed of the
stream certain marks which, unfortunately, were obliterated when Bates
hauled the body ashore. They were valueless, however—shapeless
indentations in the mud and sand.”
“Were they wide apart or close together, sir?”
“Quite irregular. No one could judge by the length of the stride
whether they were made by the feet of a man or a woman, if that is what
you have in mind ... but, really—”
Grant’s impatient motion was not to be misunderstood. Robinson stooped,
removed the rug, and unfastened the rope, after noting carefully how it
was tied, a point which he called on the others to observe as well.
Then he and the villagers went away with their sad burden, the rug
being requisitioned once more to hide that wan face from the vivid
sunshine.
Bates had a trick of grasping a handful of his short whiskers when
puzzled; he did so now; it seemed to be an unconscious effort to pull
his jaws apart in order to emit speech.
“I’ve a sort of idee, sir,” he said slowly, “that Robinson saw Doris
Martin on the lawn with ’ee last night.”
Grant turned on his henchman in a sudden heat of anger.
“Miss Martin’s name must be kept out of this matter,” he growled.
But Sussex is not easily browbeaten when it thinks itself in the right.
“All very well a-sayin’ that, sir, but a-doin’ of it is a bird of
another color,” argued Bates firmly.
“How did you know that Miss Martin was here?”
“Bless your heart, sir, how comes it that us Steynholme folk know
everythink about other folk’s business? Sometimes we know more’n they
knows themselves. You’ve not walked a yard wi’ Doris that the women’s
tittle-tattle hasn’t made it into a mile.”
No man, even the wisest, likes to be told an unpalatable truth. For a
few seconds, Grant was seriously annoyed with this village Solon, and
nearly blurted out an angry command that he should hold his tongue.
Luckily, since Bates was only trying to be helpful, he was content to
say sarcastically:
“Of course, if you are so well posted in my movements last night, you
can assure the coroner and the Police that I did not strangle some
strange woman, tie a rope around her, and throw her in the river.”
“Me an’ my missis couldn’t help seein’ you an’ Doris a-lookin’ at the
stars through a spyglass when us were goin’ to bed,” persisted Bates.
“We heerd your voices quite plain. Once ’ee fixed the glass low down,
an’ said, ‘That’s serious. It’s late to-night.’ An’ I tell ’ee
straight, sir, I said to the missis:—‘It will be serious, an’ all, if
Doris’s father catches her gallivantin’ in our garden wi’ Mr. Grant
nigh on ten o’clock.’ Soon after that ’ee took Doris as far as the
bridge. The window was open, an’ I heerd your footsteps on the road.
You kem’ in, closed the window, an’ drew a chair up to the table. After
that, I fell asleep.”
Perturbed and anxious though he was, Grant could hardly fail to see
that Bates meant well by him. The mental effort needed for such a long
speech said as much. The allusion to Sirius, amusing at any other time,
was now most valuable, because an astronomical almanac would give the
hour at which that brilliant star became visible. Other considerations
yielded at once, however, to the fear lest Robinson and his note-book
were already busy at the post office. Without another word, he hurried
away by the side-path through the evergreens, leaving Bates staring
after him, and, with more whisker-pulling, examining the rope and
staple, which, by the policeman’s order, were not to be disturbed.
Grant reached the highroad just as Robinson and the men with the
stretcher were crossing a stone bridge spanning the river about a
hundred yards below _The Hollies_. A slight, youthful, and eminently
attractive female figure, walking swiftly in the opposite direction,
came in sight at the same time, and Grant almost groaned aloud when the
newcomer stood stock still and looked at the mournful procession. He,
be it remembered, was somewhat of an idealist and a poet; it grieved
his spirit that those two women, the quick and the dead, should meet on
the bridge. He took it as a portent, almost a menace, he knew not of
what. He might have foreseen that unhappy eventuality, and prevented
it, but his brain refused to work clearly that morning. A terrible and
bizarre crime had bemused his faculties. He seemed to be in a state of
waking nightmare.
He was stung into impetuous action by seeing the policeman halt and
exchange some words with the girl. He began to run, with the quite
definite if equally mad intent of punching Robinson into reasonable
behavior. He was saved from an act of unmitigated folly by the girl
herself. She caught sight of him, apparently broke off her talk with
the policeman abruptly, and, in her turn, took to her heels.
Thus, on that strip of sun-baked road, with its easy gradient to the
crown of the bridge, there was the curious spectacle offered by two men
jogging along with a corpse on a stretcher, a young man and a young
woman running towards each other, and a discomfited representative of
the law, looking now one way and now the other, and evidently undecided
whether to go on or return. Ultimately, it would seem, Robinson went
with the stretcher-bearers, because Grant and the girl saw no more of
him for the time.
Grant had received several shocks since rising from the
breakfast-table, but it was left for Doris Martin, the postmaster’s
daughter, to administer not the least surprising one.
Though almost breathless, and wide-eyed with horror, her opening words
were very much to the point.
“How awful!” she cried. “Why should any-one in Steynholme want to kill
a great actress like Adelaide Melhuish?”
Now, the name of the dead woman was literally the last thing Grant
expected to hear from this girl’s lips, and the astounding fact
momentarily banished all other worries.
“You knew her?” he gasped.
“No, not exactly. But I couldn’t avoid recognizing her when she asked
for her letters, and sent a telegram.”
“But—”
“Oh, Robinson told me she was dead. I see now what is puzzling you.”
“It is not quite that. I mean, why didn’t you tell me she was in
Steynholme? Has she been staying here any length of time?”
The girl’s pretty face crimsoned, and then grew pale.
“I—had no idea—she was—a friend of yours, Mr. Grant,” she stammered.
“She used to be a friend, but I have not set eyes on her during the
past three years—until last night.”
“Last night!”
“After you had gone home. I was doing some work, and, having occasion
to consult a book, lighted a candle, and put it in the small window
near the bookcase. Then I fancied I saw a woman’s face, _her_ face,
peering in, and was so obsessed by the notion that I went outside, but
everything was so still that I persuaded myself I was mistaken.”
“Oh, is that what it was?”
Grant threw out his hands in a gesture that was eloquent of some
feeling distinctly akin to despair.
“You don’t usually speak in enigmas, Doris,” he said. “What in the
world do you mean by saying:—‘Oh, is that what it was?’”
The girl—she was only nineteen, and never before had aught of tragic
mystery entered her sheltered life—seemed to recover her
self-possession with a quickness and decision that were admirable.
“There is no enigma,” she said calmly. “My room overlooks your lawn.
Before retiring for the night I went to the window, just to have
another peep at Sirius and its changing lights, so I could not help
seeing you fling open the French windows, stand a little while on the
step, and go in again.”
“Ah, you saw that? Then I have one witness who will help to dispel that
stupid policeman’s notion that I killed Miss Melhuish, and hid her body
in the river at the foot of the lawn, hid it with such care that the
first passerby must find it.”
Every human being has three distinct personalities. Firstly, there is
the man or woman as he or she really is; secondly, there is the much
superior individual as assessed personally; thirdly, and perhaps the
most important in the general scheme of things, there is the same
individuality as viewed by others. For an instant, the somewhat
idealized figure which John Menzies Grant offered to a pretty and
intelligent but inexperienced girl was in danger of losing its
impressiveness. But, since Grant was not only a good fellow but a
gentleman, his next thought restored him to the pedestal from which,
all unknowing, he had nearly been dethroned.
“That is a nice thing to say,” he cried, with a short laugh of sheer
vexation. “Here am I regarding you as a first-rate witness in my
behalf, whereas my chief worry is to keep you out of this ugly business
altogether. Forgive me, Doris! Never before have I been so bothered.
Honestly, I imagined I hadn’t an enemy in the world, yet someone has
tried deliberately to saddle me with suspicion in this affair. Not that
I would give real heed to that consideration if it were not for the
unhappy probability that, strive as I may, your name will crop up in
connection with it. What sort of fellow is this police constable? Do
you think he would keep his mouth shut if I paid him well?”
Grant was certainly far from being in his normal state of mind, or he
would have caught the tender gleam which lighted the girl’s eyes when
she understood that his concern was for her, not for himself. As it
was, several things had escaped him during that brief talk on the
sunlit road.
On her part, Doris Martin was now in full control of her emotions, and
she undoubtedly took a saner view of a difficult situation.
“Robinson is a vain man,” she said thoughtfully. “He will not let go
the chance of notoriety given him by the murder of a well-known
actress. Was she really murdered? Robinson said so when I met him on
the bridge.”
“I’m afraid he is justified in that belief, at any rate.”
“Well, Mr. Grant, what have we to conceal? I was in your garden at a
rather late hour, I admit, but one cannot watch the stars by day, and a
big telescope with its tripod is not easily carried about. Of course,
father will be vexed, because, as it happens, I did not tell him I was
coming out. But that cannot be helped. As it happens, I can fix the
time you opened your window almost to a minute, because the church
clock had chimed the quarter just before you appeared.”
Grant, however, was not to be soothed by this matter-of-fact reasoning.
“I am vexed at the mere notion of your name, and possibly your
portrait, appearing in the newspapers,” he protested. “Miss Melhuish
was a celebrated actress. The press will make a rare commotion about
her death. Look at the obvious questions that will be raised. What was
she doing here? Why was she found in the river bordering the grounds of
my house? Don’t you see? I had to decide pretty quickly whether or not
I would admit any previous knowledge of her. I suppose I acted
rightly?”
“Why hide anything, Mr. Grant? Surely it is always best to tell the
truth!”
He looked into those candid blue eyes, and drew from their limpid
depths an element of strength and fortitude.
“By Jove, Doris, small wonder if a jaded man of the world, such as I
was when I came to Steynholme, found new faith and inspiration in
friendship with you,” he said gratefully. “But I am wool-gathering all
the time this morning, it would seem. Won’t you come into the house? If
we have to discuss a tragedy we may as well sit down to it.”
“No,” she said, with the promptitude of one who had anticipated the
invitation. “I must hurry home. There are accounts to be made up. And
Robinson and others will be telegraphing to Knoleworth and London. I
must attend to all that, because dad gets flustered if several messages
are handed in at the same time.”
“Come and have tea, then, about four o’clock. The ravens will have fled
by then.”
“The ravens?”
“The police, you dear child, and the reporters, and the
photographers—the flock of weird fowl which gathers from all points of
the compass when the press gets hold of what is called ‘a first-rate
story,’ By midday I shall be in the thick of it. But, thank goodness,
they will know nothing to draw them your way until the inquest takes
place, and not even then if _I_ can manage it.”
“Don’t mind me, Mr. Grant. You must not keep anything back on my
account. I’ll try and come at four. But I may be very busy in the
office. By the way, you ought to know. Miss Melhuish came here on
Sunday evening. She arrived by the train from London. I—happened to
notice her as she passed in the Hare and Hounds’ bus. She took a room
there, at the inn, I mean, and came to the post office twice yesterday.
When I heard her name I recognized her at once from her photographs.
And—one more thing—I guessed there was something wrong when I saw you,
and Robinson, and Bates, and the other men standing near a body lying
close to the river. That is why I came out. Now I really must go.
Good-by!”
She hastened away. Grant stood in the road and looked after her.
Apparently she was conscious that he had not stirred, because, when she
reached the bridge, she turned and waved a hand to him. She was
exceedingly graceful in all her movements. She wore a simple white
linen blouse and short white skirt that morning, with brown shoes and
stockings which harmonized with the deeper tints of her Titian red
hair. As she paused on the bridge for a second or two, silhouetted
against the sky, she suggested to Grant’s troubled mind the Spirit of
Summer.
Returning to the house by way of the main gate, which gave on to the
highway, he bethought him of Mrs. Bates and Minnie. They must be
enlightened, and warned as to the certain influx of visitors. He
resolved now to tackle a displeasing task boldly. Realizing that the
worst possible policy lay in denying himself to the representatives of
the press, who would simply ascertain the facts from other sources, and
unconsciously adopt a critical vein with regard to himself, he
determined to go to the other extreme, and receive all comers.
Of course, there would be reservations in his story. That is what every
man decides who faces a legal inquiry as a novice. It is a decision too
often regretted in the light of after events.
Meanwhile, P. C. Robinson was hard at work. In his own phrase, he “took
a line,” and the trend of his thoughts was clearly demonstrated when a
superintendent motored over from Knoleworth in response to a telegram.
He told how the body had been found, and then went into details
gathered in the interim.
“Miss Melhuish hadn’t been in the village five minutes,” he said,
“before she asked Mr. Tomlin, landlord of the Hare and Hounds, where
_The Hollies_ was, and how long Mr. Grant had lived in the village. She
went for a walk in the direction of his house almost at once. Tomlin
watched her until she crossed the bridge. That was on Sunday evening.”
Superintendent Fowler allowed his placid features to show a flicker of
surprise. In that rural district an actual, downright murder was almost
unknown. Even a case of manslaughter, arising out of a drunken quarrel
between laborers at fair-time, did not occur once in five years.
“Oh, she came here on Sunday, did she?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. Yesterday, too, she spoke of Mr. Grant to Hobbs, the
butcher, and Siddle, the chemist.”
The two were closeted in the sitting-room of Robinson’s cottage, which
was situated on the main road near the bridge. It faced the short,
steep hill overhanging the river. A triangular strip of turf formed the
village green, and the houses of Steynholme clustered around this and a
side road climbing the hill. From door and windows nearly every shop
and residence in the village proper could be seen. In front of the Hare
and Hounds had gathered a group of men, and it was easy to guess the
topic they were discussing. The superintendent, who did not know any of
them, had no difficulty in identifying Hobbs, who looked a butcher and
was dressed like one, or Tomlin, who was either born an innkeeper or
had been coached in the part by a stage expert. A thin, sharp-looking
person, pallid and black-haired, wearing a morning coat and striped
trousers, must surely be Siddle, while a fourth, the youngest there,
and of rather sporting guise, was apparently a farmer of a
horse-breeding turn.
“Who is that fellow in the leggings?” inquired the superintendent
irrelevantly. He was looking through the window, and Robinson
considered that the question showed a lack of interest in his
statement, though he dared not hint at such a thing.
“He’s a Mr. Elkin, sir,” he said. “As I was saying—”
“How does Mr. Elkin make a living?” broke in the other.
“He breeds hacks and polo ponies,” said Robinson, rather shortly.
“Ah, I thought so. Well, go on with your story.”
Robinson was irritated, and justly so. His superior had put him off his
“line.” He took it up again sharply, leaving out of court for the
moment the various rills of evidence which, in his opinion, united into
a swift-moving stream.
“The fact is, sir,” he blurted out, “there is an uncommonly strong case
against Mr. John Menzies Grant.”
“Phew!” whistled the superintendent.
“I think you’ll agree with me, sir, when you hear what I’ve gathered
about him one way and another.”
Robinson was sure of his audience now. Quite unconsciously, he had
applied the chief canon of realism in art. He had conveyed his effect
by one striking note. The rest of the picture was quite subsidiary to
the bold splurge of color evoked by actually naming the man he
suspected of murdering Adelaide Melhuish.