“Alarums and Excursions”
The inquest was surprisingly tame after the stirring events which had
led up to it. Indeed, save for two incidents, the proceedings were
almost dull.
The coroner, a Knoleworth solicitor named Belcher, prided himself on
conducting this _cause célèbre_ with as little ostentation as he would
have displayed over an ordinary inquiry. Messrs. Siddle, Elkin, Tomlin
and Hobbs, with eight other local tradesmen and farmers, formed the
jurors, and the chemist was promptly elected foreman; no witnesses were
ordered out of court; the formalities of “swearing in” the jury and
“viewing” the body were carried through rapidly. Almost before Grant
had time to assimilate these details Superintendent Fowler, who
marshalled the evidence, called his name. The coroner’s officer
tendered him a well-thumbed Bible, while the coroner himself
administered the oath.
Grant eyed the somewhat soiled volume, and opened it before putting it
to his lips. The action probably did not please the jury. Elkin nudged
Tomlin, and sniggered at the rest of his colleagues, as much as to say:
“What did I tell you? The cheek of him!”
Elkin, by the way, looked ill. When his interest flagged for an instant
his haggard aspect became more noticeable.
Ingerman was there, of course. Furneaux sat beside Mr. Fowler. A
stranger, whom Grant did not recognize, proved to be the County Chief
Constable. There was a strong muster of police, and the representatives
of the press completely monopolized the scanty accommodation for the
public. To Grant’s relief, Doris Martin was not in attendance.
He told the simple facts of the finding of Adelaide Melhuish’s corpse.
A harmless question by the coroner evoked the first “scene” which set
the reporters’ pencils busy.
“Did you recognize the body!” inquired Mr. Belcher.
“I did.”
“Then you can give the jury her name?”
Before Grant could answer, Ingerman sprang up, his sallow face livid
with passion.
“I protest, sir, against this man being permitted to identify my wife,”
he said.
He was either deeply moved, or proved himself an excellent actor. His
flute-like voice vibrated with an intense emotion. Thus might Mark
Antony have spoken when vowing that Brutus was an honorable man.
“Who are you?” demanded the coroner sharply.
“Isidor George Ingerman, husband of the deceased lady,” came the
clear-toned reply.
“Well, sit down, sir, and do not interrupt the court again,” said the
coroner.
“I demand, sir, that you note my protest.”
“Sit down! Were you any other person I would have you removed. As it
is, I am prepared to regard your feelings to the extent of explaining
that the witness is not identifying the body but relating a fact within
his own knowledge.”
Ingerman bowed, and resumed his seat.
For some reason, Grant stared blankly at Furneaux. The latter did not
meet his glance, but put a finger on those thin lips. It might, or
might not, be a warning to repress any retort he had in mind. At any
rate, obeying a nod from the coroner, he merely said:
“She was a well-known actress, Miss Adelaide Melhuish.”
Mr. Belcher’s pen hesitated a little. Then it scratched on.
Undoubtedly, he was himself exercising the restraint he meant to impose
on others.
“You are quite sure?” he said, after a pause.
“Quite.”
“Thank you, Mr. Grant. Wait here until you sign your deposition. Of
course, you are aware that this inquiry will stand adjourned, and the
whole matter will be gone into fully at a later date.”
“So I have been informed, sir.”
Ingerman was the next witness. _He_, like a good democrat, kissed the
cover of the Bible. The coroner began by giving him some advice.
“This is a purely formal inquiry, to permit of a death certificate
being issued. You will oblige me, therefore, by answering my questions
without introducing any extraneous subject.”
Ingerman adhered to these instructions. Having already shot a
carefully-prepared bolt, he meant avoiding any further conflict with
the authorities. His evidence was brief and to the point. The deceased
was his wife. They were married at a London registrar’s office on a
given date, six years ago. His wife acted under her maiden name. There
was no family.
The court was well lighted by four long windows in the eastern wall,
which each witness faced, so Grant was free to study his avowed enemy
at leisure. He thought he made out a crafty underlook in Ingerman which
he had failed to detect the previous night. That slow, smooth voice
seemed to weigh each syllable. Such a man would never blurt out an
unconsidered admission. He was a foe to be reckoned with. The subtle
malignancy of that well-timed outburst was proof positive in that
respect.
The jury, apparently, attached much weight to his words. On some faces
there was an expectancy which merged into marked disappointment when
his evidence came to an end. The foreman alone displayed the judicial
attitude warranted by the oath he had taken. Somehow, Grant had faith
in Mr. Siddle. The man looked intellectual. When spoken to in his shop
his manner was invariably reserved. But that was his general repute in
Steynholme—a quiet, uninterfering person, who had come to the village a
young man, yet had never really entered into its life. For instance, he
neither held nor would accept any public office. At first, people
wondered how he contrived to eke out a living, but this puzzle was
solved by his admitted possession of a small annuity.
Dr. Foxton, general practitioner, who held undisputed sway in the
district, told how he had conducted an autopsy on the body of the
deceased. He found a deep, incised wound on the back of the skull, a
wound which would have caused death in any event. The instrument used
must have been a heavy and blunt one. Miss Melhuish was dead or dying
when thrown into the river. The body was well nourished, and the vital
organs sound. Undoubtedly she had been murdered.
Bates followed, and evoked a snigger by the outspokenness of blunt
Sussex.
“I hauled ’um in,” he said, “an’ knew it wur a dead ’un by the feel of
the rope.”
The coroner was not curious. He merely wished to put on record the time
and manner in which Mr. Grant summoned assistance.
Then P. C. Robinson entered the box, and contrived to bring about the
second “incident.”
He told how, “from information received,” he went to _The Hollies_, and
found Mr. Grant standing near the river with a dead body at his feet.
“One side of Mr. Grant’s face was covered with blood,” he went on.
If the policeman was minded to create a sensation, he certainly
succeeded. A slight hum ran through the court, and then all present
seemed to restrain their breathing lest a word of the evidence should
be lost. The mention of “blood” in a murder case was a more adroit
dodge than Robinson himself guessed, perhaps. Few of his hearers
troubled to reflect that a smudge of fresh gore on Grant’s cheek could
hardly have any bearing on the death of a woman whose body had
admittedly lain all night in the river. It sufficed that Robinson had
introduced a touch of the right color into the inquiry. Even the
coroner was worried.
“Well!” he said testily.
“I took down his statement, sir,” said the witness, well knowing that
he had wiped off Grant’s morning score in the matter of Bush Walk.
“Never mind his statement. That must await the adjourned hearing. What
did you do with the body?”
“Took it to the stable of the Hare and Hounds, sir.”
“Where it was viewed recently by the jury?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It is the body identified by Mr. Ingerman as that of his wife?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That will do.... Superintendent Fowler, will this day week at ten
o’clock suit you?”
“Yes, sir,” said the superintendent.
“Then the inquest stands adjourned until that day and hour. Gentlemen
of the jury, you must be here punctually.”
“Can’t we ask any questions?” cried Elkin, in an injured tone.
“No. You cannot,” snapped the coroner emphatically.
After a few formalities, which included the reading and signing of the
depositions, the courthouse emptied. The whole thing was over in half
an hour. Grant, determined to have a word with the representative of
Scotland Yard, went openly to Furneaux, and asked him to come to The
Hollies and join him in a cup of tea.
“No,” was the curt answer. “I’m busy. I’ll see you later.”
It was difficult to reconcile the detective’s present stand-off manner
with his earlier camaradie, to say nothing of the seemingly friendly
hint conveyed by the signal to pass no comment on Ingerman’s
interruption.
Rather sick at heart, Grant went out into the sunshine. He was
snap-shotted a dozen times by press photographers. One man, backing
impudently in front of him in order to secure a sharp focus, tripped
over the raised edge of a cartway into a yard, and sat down violently.
The onlookers laughed, but Grant helped the photographer to rise.
“If you want a really good picture of the Steynholme murderer, come to
my place, and I’ll give you one,” he said.
The pressman was grateful, because Grant’s action had tended to
mitigate his discomfiture.
“No one but a fool thinks of you as a murderer, Mr. Grant,” he said.
“What I really want is a portrait of ‘the celebrated’ author in whose
grounds the body was found.”
“Come along, then, and I’ll pose for you.”
The photographer was surprised, but joyfully accepted the gifts the
gods gave. He could not guess that his host was pining for human
companionship. He could not fathom Grant’s disappointment, on reaching
_The Hollies_, at finding no telegram from a trusted friend, Walter
Hart. And he was equally unconscious of the immense service he rendered
by compelling his host to talk and act naturally. He enlightened Grant,
too, in the matter of inquests.
“Next week there will be a gathering of lawyers,” he said. “The police
will be represented, probably by the Treasury, if the case is thought
sufficiently important. That chap, Ingerman, too, will employ a
solicitor, I expect, judging from his attitude to-day. In fact, any one
whose interests are affected ought to secure legal assistance. One
never knows how these inquiries twist and turn.”
“Thank you,” said Grant, smiling at the journalist’s tact. “I’ll order
tea to be got ready while you’re taking your pictures. By the way, what
sort of detective is Mr. Charles F. Furneaux?”
“A pocket marvel,” was the enthusiastic answer. “Haven’t you heard of
him before? Well, you wouldn’t, unless you followed famous cases
professionally. He seldom appears in the courts—generally manages to
wriggle out of giving direct evidence. But I’ve never known him to
fail. He either hangs his man or drives him to suicide. If I committed
a crime, and was told that Furneaux was after me, I’d own up and save
trouble, because I wouldn’t have the ghost of a chance of winning
clear.”
“He strikes one as too flippant for a detective.”
“Yes. Lots of people have thought that, and they’re either disappearing
in quicklime beneath some corridor of a prison, or doing time at
Portland. I wonder if Winter also is coming down on this job.”
“Who is ‘Winter’?”
“The Chief Inspector at the ‘Yard.’ A big, cheerful-looking fellow—from
his appearance might be a gentleman-farmer and J. P., with a taste for
horses and greyhounds. He and Furneaux are called the Big ’Un and the
Little ’Un, and each is most unlike the average detective. But Heaven
help any wrong-doer they set out to trail! They’ll get him, as sure as
God made little apples.”
“Then the sooner Mr. Winter visits Steynholme the better I shall be
pleased. This tragedy is becoming a perfect nightmare. You heard that
fat-headed policeman speak of my face being covered with blood. He did
it purposely. I made a fool of him this morning, so he paid me out, the
literal truth being that a branch of that Dorothy Perkins rose there
caught my cheek as I entered this room on Tuesday morning—before I
discovered the body—and broke the skin. I suppose the cut is visible
still? I saw it to-day while shaving.”
“Yes,” said the other, chortling over the “copy” his colleagues were
missing. “The mark is there right enough. Queer how inanimate objects
like a rose-tree can make mischief. I remember a case in which a
chestnut in a man’s pocket sent him to penal servitude. There was
absolutely no evidence against him, except a possible motive, until
that chestnut was found and proved to be one of a particular species,
grown only in a certain locality.”
“How fortunate that the Dorothy Perkins is popular!” laughed Grant.
“Will your paper publish photographs of the principals in this affair?”
“I expect so. I’ve a fine collection—the jury, all in a row—and you,
making that speech to the mob.”
“Oh! Will that appear?”
“By Jove, yes, sir. It was wired off before the inquest opened.”
Grant reddened slightly. His own impetuous action had blurted out to
the whole world that which Steynholme was only thinking. No wonder
Furneaux had warned him to go slow. Perhaps the little man was annoyed
because of his challenge to the village crowd? Well, be it so. He
meant, and would live up to, every word of it!
The afternoon dragged after the pressman’s departure. What Grant really
hungered for was a heart-to-heart talk between Doris Martin and
himself. But, short of a foolish attempt to carry the post office by
storm, he saw no means of realizing his desire. He must, perforce,
await the less troubled hours of the morrow or next day. Doris would
surely give her father an exact account of the conversation between
Grant, Furneaux, and herself that morning, and that greatly perplexed
man could hardly fail to see how unjust was the tittle-tattle of the
village.
So, avoiding Mrs. Bates, whose fell intent it was to ask him what he
wanted for dinner, he struck off along the road to Knoleworth, walked
eight miles in two hours, and reached _The Hollies_ about seven
o’clock, rather inclined for a meal and much more contented with life.
Minnie announced that a gentleman “who brought a bag” had been awaiting
him since half-past five, and was now asleep on the lawn! A glance at
the aforesaid bag, still reposing in the entrance hall, sent Grant
quickly into the garden. A long, broad-shouldered person was stretched
on a wicker chair, and evidently enjoying a nap. A huge meerschaum pipe
and tobacco pouch lay on the grass. The newcomer’s face was covered by
a broad-brimmed, decidedly weather-beaten slouch hat, which, legend had
it, was purchased originally in South America in the early nineties,
and had won fame as the only one of its kind ever worn in the Strand.
“Hullo! Wally! Glad to see you!” shouted Grant joyously.
The sleeper stirred.
“No, not another drop!” he muttered. “You fellows must have heads of
triple brass and stomachs of leather!”
“Get up, you rascal, or I’ll spill you out of the chair!” said Grant.
A lazy hand removed the hat, and a pair of peculiarly big and bright
eyes gazed up into his.
“Oh, it’s you, is it?” drawled a quiet voice. “Why the blazes did you
send for me? And, having sent, why wake me out of the best sleep I’ve
had for a week?”
“But why didn’t you let me know you were coming? I would have met the
train.”
“I did. Here’s the telegram. That pink-cheeked maid of yours nearly had
a fit when I opened it to show her that I was expected.”
“You wired from Victoria, I suppose?”
“Would you have preferred Charing Cross, or the Temple? Isn’t Victoria
respectable?”
Grant laughed as they shook hands. Hart was the most casual adventurer
in existence. His specialty was revolutions. Wherever the flag of
rebellion was raised against a government, thither went Walter Hart
post-haste by train, steamer, or on horseback. He had been sentenced to
death five times, and decorated by successful Jack Cades twice as
often.
“I’m a sort of outlaw. That’s why I sought your help,” explained Grant.
“I know all about you, Jack,” said Hart slowly, picking up the pipe and
filling it from the pouch. The meerschaum was carved to represent the
head of a grinning negro, and was now ebon black from use.
“I felt like a pint of Sussex ale after a hot journey in the train, so
hied me to the village inn, where several obliging gentlemen told me
your real name. Two of them, Ingerman and Elkin, apparently make a
hobby of enlightening strangers as to your right place in society.”
“I must interview Elkin.”
“Not worth while, my boy. Ingerman is the crafty one. I thought I might
be doing you more harm than good, or I would have given him a thick ear
this afternoon ... Oh, by the way, what time is it?”
“Seven o’clock.”
“A little fellow named Furneaux is coming here to dinner at
seven-thirty. Said he would drop in by the back door, and mutter ‘Hush!
I’m Hawkshaw, the detective.’ He resembles a cock-sparrow, so I asked
him why he didn’t fly in through an attic window. He took my point at
once, and remarked that he wanted none of my lip, or he would ask me
officially what became of Don Ramon de Santander’s big pink pearl. It’s
a queer yarn. There was a bust-up in Guatemala—”
“Look here, Wally,” broke in Grant anxiously. “Are you serious? Did
Furneaux really say he was coming here?”
“He did, and more—he expressed a partiality for a chicken roasted on a
spit. You have a spit in your kitchen, he says, and a pair of chickens
in your larder.”
“How did you contrive to meet him?”
“You’re a poor guesser, Jack. _He_ met _me_. ‘That you, Mr. Hart?’ he
said. ‘Mr. Grant’s house is the first on the right across the bridge.
Tell him’—and the rest of it.”
“Have you warned Mrs. Bates?”
“Mrs. Bates being?”
“My housekeeper.”
“No, sir. If she’s anything like your housemaid, I’m glad I didn’t, or
I should have been chucked into the road. I had the deuce of a job to
reach the lawn. Had I ordered dinner I might now have been in the
village lockup.”
Grant hurried away, and placated Mrs. Bates after a stormy interlude.
Precisely at 7.30 p. m. Minnie came and said that “Mr. Hawkshaw” had
arrived.
“Bring him out here,” said Grant. “Fetch some sherry and glasses, and
give us five minutes’ notice before dinner is served.”
“Please, sir,” tittered Minnie, “the gentleman prefers to stay indoors.
He said his complexion won’t stand the glare.”
“Very well,” smiled Grant, rising. “Put the sherry and bitters on the
sideboard.”
“Say,” murmured Hart, “is this chap really a detective?”
“Yes. He stands high at Scotland Yard.”
“Never more than five feet four, I’ll swear. But I wouldn’t have missed
this for a pension. I have a revolver in my hip pocket, of course. One
would feel lonely without it, even in England. But I hope you can stage
a few knives and daggers, and a red light. I can cut masks out of a
strip of black velvet. That girl will have a piece stowed away
somewhere.”
The two entered the dining-room study, where the table was now laid for
dinner. Furneaux was seated on the edge of a chair in the darkest
corner. His eyes gleamed at them strangely.
“Can you trust Bates?” he said to Grant.
It was a wholly unexpected question, and Grant answered sharply:
“Of course, I can.”
“Tell him to make sure that no one trespasses on your lawn between now
and ten o’clock. Close that window, draw the blind and curtains, and
block that small window, the one through which you saw the ghost.”
“Ye gods!” cackled Hart ecstatically.
“Why all these precautions?” demanded Grant, rather amused now.
“I’m supposed to be on the very verge of arresting you, and it would
weaken the faith of my allies if I were seen drinking your wines and
eating your chicken.”
“By the way, how did you know I had chickens in store, and a spit on
which to roast them?”
“I looked you over at five-thirty this morning, having traveled from
London by the mail train. I must lecture you on your inefficient
window-catches, Mr. Grant. Several self-respecting burglars of my
acquaintance would give your house the go-by as being too easy. And,
one other matter. I suggest that any man who mentions the Steynholme
murder again before the coffee arrives shall be fined a sovereign for
each offense, such fine, or fines, to form a fund for the relief of his
hearers. _Cré nom d’un pipe_! Three intelligent men can surely discuss
more interesting topics while they eat!”