The Gathering Clouds
Thus, it befell that Grant was not worried by officialdom until long
after his housekeeper and her daughter had recovered from the shock of
learning that they were, in a sense, connected at first hand with a
ghastly and sensational crime.
Like Bates and their employer, neither Mrs. Bates nor Minnie had heard
or seen anything overnight which suggested that a woman was being
foully done to death in the grounds attached to the house. As it
happened, Minnie’s bedroom, as well as that occupied by her parents,
overlooked the lawn and river. Grant’s room lay in a gable which
commanded the entrance. He had chosen it purposely because it faced the
rising sun. The other members of the household, therefore, though in
bed, had quite as good an opportunity as he, working in the dining-room
beneath, of having their attention drawn to sounds disturbing the peace
of the night in a quiet and secluded spot. Moreover, none of them was
asleep. Minnie Bates, in particular, said that the “grandfather’s
clock” in the hall struck twelve before she “could close an eye.”
At last, just as Grant was rising from an almost untasted luncheon,
Mrs. Bates, with a voice of scare, announced “the polis,” and P. C.
Robinson introduced Superintendent Fowler. This time Grant did not
resent questions. He expected them, and had made up his mind to give
full and detailed answers. Of course, the finding of the body was again
described minutely. The superintendent, a man of experience, one whose
manner was not fox-like and irritating like his subordinate’s, paid
close attention to the face at the window.
“There seems to be little room for doubt that Miss Melhuish did enter
your grounds about a quarter to eleven last night,” he said
thoughtfully. “You recognized her at once, you say?”
“I imagined so. Until this horrible thing became known I had persuaded
myself that the vision was a piece of sheer hallucination.”
“Let us assume that the lady actually came here, and looked in.
Evidently, her face was sufficiently familiar that you should know
instantly who this unusual visitor was. I understand, though, that you
had not the least notion she was staying in Steynholme?”
“Not the least.”
“How long ago is it since you last saw her?”
“Nearly three years.”
“You were very well acquainted with her, then, or you could not have
glanced up from your table, seen someone staring at you through a
window, and said to yourself, as one may express it:—‘That is Adelaide
Melhuish’.”
“We were so well acquainted that I asked the lady to be my wife.”
“Ah,” said the superintendent.
His placid, unemotional features, however, gave no clew to his
opinions. Not so P. C. Robinson, who tried to look like a judge,
whereas he really resembled a bull-terrier who has literally, not
figuratively, smelt a rat.
Despite his earlier good resolutions, Grant was horribly impatient of
this inquisition. He admitted that the superintendent was carrying
through an unpleasant duty as inoffensively as possible, but the
attitude of the village policeman was irritating in the extreme.
Nothing would have tended so effectively to relieve his surcharged
feelings as to supply P. C. Robinson then and there with ample material
for establishing a charge of assault and battery.
“That is not a remarkable fact, if regarded apart from to-day’s
tragedy,” he said, and there was more than a hint of soul-weariness in
his voice. “Miss Melhuish was a very talented and attractive woman. I
first met her as the outcome of a suggestion that one of my books
should be dramatized, a character in the novel being deemed eminently
suitable for her special rôle on the stage. The idea came to nothing.
She was appearing in a successful play at the time, and was rehearsing
its successor. Meanwhile, I—fell in love with her, I suppose, and she
certainly encouraged me in the belief that she might accept me. I did
eventually propose marriage. Then she told me she was married already.
It was a painful disillusionment—at the time. I only saw her, to speak
to, once again.”
“Did she reveal her husband’s name?”
“Yes—a Mr. Ingerman.”
The superintendent looked grave. That was a professional trick of his.
He had never before in his life heard of Mr. Ingerman, but encouraged
the notion that this gentleman was thoroughly, and not quite favorably,
known to him. Sometimes it happened that a witness, interpreting this
sapient look by the light of his or her personal and intimate
knowledge, would blurt out certain facts, good or bad as the case might
be, concerning the person under discussion.
But Grant remained obstinately silent as to the qualities of this
doubtful Ingerman, so Mr. Fowler scribbled the name in a note-book, and
was particular as to whether it ended in one “n” or two.
Still, he carried other shots in his locker. In fact, Mr. Fowler, had
he taken in youth to nicer legal subtleties than handcuffs and
summonses, would have become a shrewd lawyer.
“We’ll leave Mr. Ingerman for the moment,” he said, implying, of
course, that on returning to him there might be revelations. “I gather
that you and Miss Melhuish did not agree, shall I put it? as to the
precise bearing of the marriage tie on your love affair?”
“I’m afraid I don’t quite follow your meaning,” and Grant’s tone
stiffened ominously, but his questioner was by no means abashed.
“I have no great acquaintance with the stage or its ways, but I have
always understood that divorce proceedings among theatrical folk were,
shall we say? more popular than, in the ordinary walks of life,” said
Mr. Fowler.
Grant’s resentment vanished. The superintendent’s calm method, his
interpolated apologies, as it were, for applying the probe, were
beginning to interest him.
“Your second effort is more successful, superintendent,” he said dryly.
“Miss Melhuish did urge me to obtain her freedom. It was, she thought,
only a matter of money with Mr. Ingerman, and she would be given
material for a divorce.”
“Ah,” murmured Fowler again, as though the discreditable implication
fitted in exactly with the life history of a noted scoundrel in a
written _dossier_ then lying in his office. “You objected, may I
suggest, to that somewhat doubtful means of settling a difficulty?”
“Something of the kind.”
Assuredly, Grant did not feel disposed to lay bare his secret feelings
before this persuasive superintendent and an absurdly conceited village
constable. Love, to him, was an ideal, a blend of mortal passion and
immortal fire. But the flame kindled on that secret altar had scorched
and seared his soul in a wholly unforeseen way. The discovery that
Adelaide Melhuish was another man’s wife had stunned him. It was not
until the fire of sacrifice had died into parched ashes that its
earlier banality became clear. He realized then that he had given his
love to a phantom. By one of nature’s miracles a vain and selfish
creature was gifted in the artistic portrayal of the finer emotions. He
had worshiped the actress, the mimic, not the woman herself. At any
rate, that was how he read the repellent notion that he should bargain
with any man for the sale of a wife.
“You might be a trifle more explicit, Mr. Grant,” said the
superintendent, almost reproachfully.
“In what direction? Surely a three-years-old love affair can have
little practical bearing on Miss Melhuish’s death?”
“What, then, may I ask, could bear on it more forcibly? The lady
admittedly visits you, late at night, and is found dead in a river
bordering the grounds of your house next morning, all the conditions
pointing directly to murder. Moreover—it is no secret, as the truth
must come out at the inquest—she had passed a good deal of her time
while in Steynholme, unknown to you, in making inquiries concerning
you, your habits, your surroundings, your friends. Surely, Mr. Grant,
you must see that the history of your relations with this lady, though,
if I may use the phrase, perfectly innocent, may possibly supply that
which is at present lacking—a clew, shall I term it, to the motive
which inspired the man, or woman, who killed her?”
P. C. Robinson was all an eye and an ear for this verbal
fencing-match. It was not that he admired his superior’s skill, because
such finesse was wholly beyond him, but his suspicious brain was
storing up Grant’s admissions “to be used in evidence” against him
subsequently. His own brief record of the conversation would have
been:—“The prisoner, after being duly cautioned, said he kept company
with the deceased about three years ago, but quarreled with her on
hearing that she was a married woman.”
The superintendent seldom indulged in so long a speech, but he was
determined to force his adversary’s guard, and sought to win his
confidence by describing the probable course to be pursued by the
coroner’s inquest. But Grant, like the dead actress, had two sides to
his nature. He was both an idealist and a stubborn fighter, and
ideality had been shattered for many a day by that grewsome object
hauled in that morning from the depths of the river.
“I am willing to help in any shape or form, but can only repeat that
Miss Melhuish and I parted as described. I should add that I have
never, to my knowledge, met her husband.”
“He may be dead.”
“Possibly. You may know more about him than I.”
“Even then, we have not traveled far as yet.”
Fowler was puzzled, and did not hesitate to show it. He believed, not
without reasonable cause, that this young man was concealing some
element in the situation which might prove helpful in the quest for the
murderer. He resolved to strike off along a new track.
“I am informed,” he went on, speaking with a deliberateness meant to be
impressive, “that you did entertain another lady as a visitor last
night.”
Grant allowed his glance to dwell on Robinson for an instant. Hitherto
he had ignored the man. Now he surveyed him as if he were a viper.
“It will be a peculiarly offensive thing if the personality of a
helpless and unoffending girl is brought into this inquiry,” he cried.
“‘Brought in’ is too mild—I ought to say ‘dragged in.’ As it happens,
astronomy is one of my hobbies. Last evening, as the outcome of a chat
on the subject, Doris Martin, daughter of the local postmaster, came
here to view Sirius through an astronomical telescope. There is the
instrument,” and he pointed through P. C. Robinson to a telescope on a
tripod in a corner of the room. The gesture was eloquent. The burly
policeman might have been a sheet of glass. “As you see, it is a solid
article, not easily lifted about. It weighs nearly a hundred-weight.”
“Why is it so heavy?”
The superintendent had a knack of putting seemingly irrelevant
questions. Robinson had been disconcerted by it earlier in the day, but
Grant seemed to treat the interruption as a sensible one.
“For observation purposes an astronomical telescope is not of much use
unless the movement of the earth is counteracted,” he said. “Usually,
the dome of an observatory swings on a specially contrived axis, but
that is a very expensive structure, so my telescope is governed by a
clockwork attachment and moves on its own axis.”
Mr. Fowler nodded. He was really a very well informed man for a country
police-officer; he understood clearly.
“Miss Martin came here about a quarter to ten,” continued Grant, “and
left within three-quarters of an hour. She did not enter the house. She
was watching Sirius while I explained the methods whereby the distance
of any star from the earth is computed and its chemical analysis
determined—”
“Most instructive, I’m sure,” put in the superintendent.
He smiled genially, so genially that Grant dismissed the notion that
the other might, in vulgar parlance, be pulling his leg.
“Well, that is the be-all and end-all of Miss Martin’s presence. It
would be cruel, and unfair, if a girl of her age were forced into a
distasteful prominence in connection with a crime with which she is no
more related than with Sirius itself.”
The older man shook his head in regretful dissent.
“That is just where you and I differ,” he said. “That very point leads
us back to your past friendship with the dead woman.”
“Why?”
“Surely you see, Mr. Grant, that Miss Melhuish might be, probably was,
watching your star-gazing, especially as your pupil chanced to be,
shall I say, a remarkably attractive young lady ... No, no,” for
Grant’s anger was unmistakable—“It does no good to blaze out in
protest. An unhappy combination of circumstances must be faced
candidly. Here are you and a pretty girl together in a garden at a
rather late hour, and a woman whom you once wanted to marry spying on
you, in all likelihood. I’ve met a few coroner’s juries in my time, and
not one of them but would deem the coincidence strange, to put it
mildly.”
“What in Heaven’s name are you driving at?”
“You must not impute motives, sir. I am seeking them, not supplying
them.”
“But what am I to say?”
“Perhaps you will now tell me just how Miss Melhuish and you parted.”
The fencers were coming to close quarters. Even P. C. Robinson had to
admit that his “boss” had cornered the suspect rather cleverly.
Grant realized that there was no room for squeamishness in this affair.
If he did not speak out now, his motives might be woefully
misunderstood.
“We parted in wrath and tears,” he said sadly. “Miss Melhuish could
not, or did not, appreciate my scruples. She professed to be in love
with me. She even went so far as to threaten suicide. I—hardly believed
in her sincerity, but thought it advisable to temporize, and asked for
a few days’ delay before we came to a final decision. We met again, as
I have said, and discussed matters in calmer mood. Ultimately, she
professed agreement with my point of view, and we parted, ostensibly to
remain good friends, but really to separate for ever.”
“Thank you. That’s better. What _was_ your point of view, Mr. Grant?”
“Surely I have made it clear. I could not regard my wife as
purchasable. The proposed compact was, I believe, illegal. But that
consideration did not sway me. I had been dreaming, and thought I was
roaming in an enchanted garden. I awoke, and found myself in a morass.”
The superintendent nodded again. Singularly enough, Grant’s somewhat
high-flown simile appeared to satisfy his craving for light.
“Do you mind telling me—is there another woman?” he demanded, with one
of those rapid transitions of topic in which he excelled.
“No,” said Grant.
“You see what I am aiming at. Let us suppose that Miss Melhuish never,
in her own mind, abandoned the hope that some day the tangle would
straighten itself. Women are constituted that way. If her husband is
now dead, and she became free, she might wish to renew the old ties,
but, being proud, would want to ascertain first whether or not any
other woman had come into your life.”
“I follow perfectly,” said Grant, with some bitterness. “She would be
consumed with jealousy because my companion in the garden last night
happened to be a charming girl of nineteen.”
“It is possible.”
“So she went off and got someone to kill her, and tie her body with a
rope, and arrange a dramatic setting whereby it would be patent to the
meanest intelligence that I was the criminal?”
Mr. Fowler smiled, and looked fixedly at P. C. Robinson.
“No, no,” he said, quite good-humoredly. “That would be carrying
realism to extremes. Still, I am convinced, Mr. Grant, that this
mystery is bound up in some way with your romance of three years ago.
At present, I admit, I am working in the dark.”
He rose. Apparently, the interview was at an end. But, while pocketing
his note-book, he said suddenly:—
“The inquest will open at three o’clock tomorrow. You will be present,
of course, Mr. Grant?”
“I suppose it is necessary.”
“Oh, yes. You found the body, you know. Besides, you may be the only
person who can give evidence of identity. In fact, you and the doctor
will be the only witnesses called.”
“Dr. Foxton?”
“Yes.”
“Has he made a post-mortem?”
“He is doing so now. You see, there is clear indication that this
unfortunate lady was struck a heavy blow, perhaps killed, before she
was put in the river.”
“Good Heavens! Somehow, I was so stunned that I never thought of
looking for signs of any injury of that sort.”
Grant’s horror-stricken air was so spontaneous that it probably
justified the severe test of that unexpected disclosure. He was so
unnerved by it that the two policemen had gone before he could frame
another question.
Once they were in the open road, and well away from _The Hollies_,
Robinson ventured to open his mouth.
“He’s a clever one is Mr. Grant,” he said meaningly. “You handled him a
bit of all right, sir, but he didn’t tell you everything he knew, not
by long chalks.”
The superintendent walked a few yards in silence. Even when he spoke,
his gaze was introspective, and seemed to ignore his companion.
“I’m inclined to agree with you, Robinson,” he said, speaking very
slowly. “We have a big case in our hands, a very big case. We must
tread warily. You, in particular, mixing with the village folk, should
listen to all but say nothing. Don’t depend on your memory. Write down
what you hear and see. People’s actual words, and the exact time of an
occurrence, often have an extraordinarily illuminating effect when
weighed subsequently. But don’t let Mr. Grant think you suspect him.
There is no occasion for that—yet.”
Mr. Fowler could be either blunt or cryptic in speech at will. In one
mood he was the straightforward, outspoken official; in another the
potential lawyer. P. C. Robinson, though unable to describe his
chief’s erratic qualities, was unpleasantly aware of them. He was not
quite sure, for instance, whether the superintendent was encouraging or
warning him, but, being a dogged person, resolved to “take his own
line,” and stick to it.
Grant passed a distressful day. Work was not to be thought of, and
reading was frankly impossible. His mind dwelt constantly on the
tragedy which had come so swiftly and completely into his ordered life.
He could not wholly discard the nebulous theory suggested by
Superintendent Fowler, but the more he surveyed it the less reasonable
it seemed. The one outstanding fact in a chaos of doubt was that
someone had deliberately done Adelaide Melhuish to death. The murderer
had been actuated by a motive. What was that motive? Surely, in a place
like Steynholme no man could come and go without being seen, and the
murderer must be a stranger to the district, because it was ridiculous
to imagine that he was one of the residents.
Yet that was exactly what a dunderheaded policeman believed. P. C.
Robinson had revealed himself by many a covert glance and prick-eared
movement. Grant squirmed uneasily at the crass conceit, as there was no
denying that circumstances tended towards a certain doubt, if no more,
in regard to his own association with the crime.
The admission called for a fierce struggle with his pride, but he
forced himself to think the problem out in all its bearings, and the
folly of adopting the legendary policy of the chased ostrich became
manifest. What, then, should he do? He thought, at first, of invoking
the aid of a barrister friend, who could watch the inquest in his
behalf.
Nevertheless, he shrank from that step, which, to his super-sensitive
nature, implied the need of legal protection, and he fiercely resented
the mere notion of such a thing. But something must be done. Once the
murderer was laid by the heels his own troubles would vanish, and the
storm raised by the unhappy fate of Adelaide Melhuish would subside
into a sad memory.
He was wrestling with indecision when a newspaper reporter called.
Grant received the journalist promptly, and told him all the salient
facts, suppressing only the one-time prospect of a marriage between
himself and the famous actress.
The reporter went with him to the river, and scrutinized the marks, now
rapidly becoming obliterated, of the body having been drawn ashore.
“The rope and iron staple, I understand, were taken from the premises
of a man who lets boats for hire on the dam quarter of a mile away,” he
said casually.
Grant was astounded at his own failure to make any inquiry whatsoever
concerning this vital matter. He laughed grimly.
“You can imagine the state of my mind,” he said, “when I assure you
that, until this moment, it never occurred to me even to ask where
these articles came from or what had become of them.”
“I can sympathize with you,” said the journalist. “A brutal murder
seems horribly out of place in this environment. It is a mysterious
business altogether. I wonder if Scotland Yard will take it up.”
Grant surprised him by clapping him on the back.
“By Jove, my friend, the very thing! Of course, such an investigation
requires bigger brains than our local police are endowed with. Scotland
Yard _must_ take it up. I’ll wire there at once. If necessary, I’ll pay
all expenses.”
The newspaper man had his doubts. The “Yard,” he said, acted in the
provinces only if appealed to by the authorities directly concerned.
But Grant was not to be stayed by a trifle like that. He hurried to the
post office, hoping that Doris Martin might walk back with him.
The girl and her father were busy behind the counter when he entered.
He noticed that Doris was rather pale. She was about to attend to him,
but Mr. Martin intervened. It struck Grant that the postmaster was
purposely preventing his daughter from speaking to him.
For some inexplicable reason, he felt miserably tongue-tied, and was
content to write a message to the Chief Commissioner of Police, London,
asking that a skilled detective should be sent forthwith to Steynholme.
Mr. Martin read it gravely, stated the cost, and procured the requisite
stamps. In the event, Grant quitted the place without exchanging a word
with Doris, while her father, usually a chatty man, said not a syllable
beyond what was barely needed.
As he passed down the hill and by the side of the Green he was aware of
being covertly watched by many eyes. He saw P. C. Robinson peering
from behind a curtained window. Siddle, the chemist, came to the shop
door, and looked after him. Hobbs, the butcher, ceased sharpening a
knife and gazed out. Tomlin, landlord of the Hare and Hounds Inn,
surveyed him from the “snug.”
These things were not gracious. Indeed, they were positively maddening.
He went home, gave an emphatic order that no one, except Miss Martin,
if she called, was to be admitted and savagely buried himself in a
treatise on earth-tides.
But that day of events had not finished for him yet. He had, perforce,
eaten a good meal, and was thinking of going to the post office in
order to clear up an undoubted misapprehension in Mr. Martin’s mind,
when Minnie Bates came with a card.
“If you please, sir,” said the girl, “this gentleman is very pressing.
He says he’s sure you’ll give him an interview when you see his name.”
So Grant looked, and read:—
Mr. Isidor G. Ingerman
_Prince’s Chambers, London, W._