How Whom the Cap Fits—
Several minutes had elapsed between the two unexpected visits. During
those minutes a somewhat acrimonious discussion broke out in the
dining-room. Bates went to reassure his wife, and Hart sauntered back
from the kitchen. He was received by Furneaux and Grant more in sorrow
than in anger, a pose on their part which he blandly disregarded. He
helped himself to the remains of the decanter of port.
“The next point of vital interest in the narrative is to establish, by
such evidence as is available, who Owd Ben is, or was,” he said. “I
presume, since he had attained local celebrity as a ghost, he has
passed over, as the spiritists say.”
“Sit down!” cried Furneaux savagely.
Hart sat down, and began filling that portentous pipe.
“You fellows merely ran into each other outside, I take it,” he said,
apparently by way of a chatty remark. “The crack of the pistol-shot and
the supposed resurrection of Owd Ben threw Mrs. Bates temporarily off
her balance, so I helped in reviving her. Between such a cook and such
a ghost, who would hesitate?”
When Furneaux was really irritated, he swore in French.
_“Nom d’un bon petit homme gris!”_ he almost squealed, “why did you
whip out that infernal revolver? You spoiled everything, everything!
Have you no sense in that picturesque head of yours? Your skull is big
enough to hold brains, not soap-bubbles.”
“Did your French father marry a Jap?” inquired Hart, with sudden
interest.
“And now you’re insulting my mother,” yelped the detective.
“Not I. You know nothing about the finest race of little women in the
world, or you would not even imagine such rubbish.”
“But why, why, didn’t you tell me that you saw someone outside?”
“You wouldn’t have believed me. The goblin was disappearing. I had to
shoot quick.”
“Why shoot at all?”
“Sir, there are certain manifestations I object to on principle. What
self-respecting ghost ever wore whiskers?”
“This was no ghost. You shot the man’s hat off.”
“Then what the blazes are you growling at? Had I, in blood-curdling
whisper, told you that once again there was a face at the window, you
would have scoffed at me. The ill-looking scamp caught my eye after his
first glance at Grant. He was mizzling when I fired. You would have sat
there and argued about hypnosis, with our worthy author’s skilled
support. And there would have been no hat! I do an admirable bit of
trick shooting, yet I am only reviled for my dexterity. Really, Charles
François!”
“Ah! You remember, at last,” and the detective smiled sourly.
“_Parfaitement_! as they say in Paris, where you and I met once, though
’twas in a crowd. But _I_ didn’t steal the blessed pearl. I believe it
was that blatant patriot, Domengo Suarez.”
“You’ve got _some_ brains, then. Why not use them? Don’t you see what a
fix we three would have found ourselves in had you shot the man?”
“But, consider, Carlo mio! A spook with whiskers! What court would find
me guilty? Let me produce the authentic record of Owd Ben, and I have
no doubt but that the Lord Chief Justice himself would have potted his
representative. He’d be bound to confess it.”
Furneaux was cooling down.
“You’ve shaken my confidence,” he said. “Unless I have your promise
that you will never do such a thing again while in my company, I shall
ban you from this inquiry with bell, book, and candle.”
“Very well. It’s a bargain. Now let us ponder Exhibit A.”
He stretched a long arm over the table, and took the hat.
“Put it on!” commanded the detective.
Hart did so, and scowled frightfully. Furneaux bent forward and
squinted.
“Notice the line of those bullet-holes,” he said to Grant.
“Any man wearing that hat must have had his scalp ploughed up,” said
Grant instantly.
“Well, we know that nothing of the kind happened. Why?”
“It was perched on top of a wig,” drawled Hart.
Furneaux was slightly disappointed—there was no denying it. Being a
vain little person, he liked to show off in a minor matter such as
this.
“Yes,” he admitted, “and what’s the corollary?”
“That the wearer is probably a clean-shaven person with thin hair, a
daring scoundrel who is well posted in the leading characteristics of
Owd Ben. Charles le Petit, time is now ripe for details of that hairy
goblin.”
“Where did you dig him up from, anyhow?” said the detective testily.
“Mrs. Bates recognized him from my vivid description.”
“Her husband can tell us the story,” put in Grant. “I’ll fetch him.”
He had not moved ere the front door bell rang a second time.
“Here is Owd Ben himself, I expect,” said Hart.
“If it’s that Robinson—” growled Furneaux vexedly, hastening to
forestall Minnie.
But it was Doris Martin, and very pretty she looked as she entered the
room, her high color being the joint outcome of a rapid walk and a very
natural embarrassment at finding the frankly admiring eyes of a
stranger fixed on her.
“I don’t quite know why I’m here,” she said, with a nervous laugh,
addressing Grant directly. “You will think I am always gazing in the
direction of _The Hollies_, but my room commands this house so fully
that I cannot help seeing or hearing anything unusual. A few minutes
ago I heard what I thought was a muffled gunshot. I looked out, and saw
your window thrown open, though the light was dim, and only a candle
was showing in the smaller window. I was alarmed, so came to inquire
what had happened. You’ll pardon me, I’m sure.”
“Say you don’t, Jack, I implore you, and let me apologize for you,”
pleaded Hart.
“Doris, this is my good friend, Wally Hart,” smiled Grant. “Won’t you
sit down? We have an exciting story for you.”
“Father will be horribly anxious if he knows I have gone out.”
Nevertheless, there was sufficient spice of Mother Eve in Doris that
she should take the proffered chair.
“Sorry to interrupt,” broke in Furneaux. “Did you meet P. C. Robinson!”
“No.”
“You came by way of the bridge?”
“There is no other way, unless one makes a detour by Bush Walk.”
The detective whirled round on Grant.
“What room is over this one?”
“Minnie’s.”
“She’s in the kitchen, with her mother. See that she doesn’t come
upstairs while I’m absent. You three keep on talking.”
“Thanks,” said Hart.
Doris, more self-possessed now, read the meaning of the quip promptly.
“Mr. Grant has often spoken of you,” she said. “You talk, and we’ll
listen.”
“Not so, divinity,” came the retort. “I may be a parrot, but I don’t
want my neck wrung when you’ve gone.”
“Don’t encourage him, Doris,” said Grant, “or you’ll be here till
midnight.”
“If that’s the best you can do, you had better leave the recital to
me,” laughed Hart.
Meanwhile, Furneaux had stolen noiselessly to the bedroom overhead. The
casement window was open—he had noted that fact while in the garden. He
peeped out, and was just in time to see Robinson emulating a Sioux
Indian on the war-path. The policeman removed his helmet, and was about
to peer cautiously through the small window. The detective’s blood ran
cold. What if Hart discovered yet another ghost?
“Robinson—go home!” he said, in sepulchral tones.
The constable positively jumped. He gaped on all sides in real terror.
He, too, had heard hair-raising tales of Owd Ben.
“Go home!” hissed Furneaux, leaning out.
Then the other looked up.
“Oh, it’s you, sir!” he gasped, sighing with relief.
“Man, you’ve had the closest shave of your life! There’s a fellow below
there who shoots at sight.”
“But I’m on duty, sir.”
“You’ll be in Kingdom Come if you gaze in at that window. Be off!”
“I—”
“Robinson, you and I will quarrel if you don’t do as I bid you. And
that would be a pity, because I want to inform Mr. Fowler that he has a
particularly smart man in Steynholme.”
“Very well, sir, if _you’re_ satisfied, I _must_ be.”
And away went the eavesdropper, crushed, still tingling with that fear
of the supernatural latent in every heart, but far from convinced.
Furneaux tripped downstairs. The routing of Robinson had put him into a
real good humor. He found the three in the dining-room gazing
spell-bound at the felt hat.
“Now, young lady, you’re coming with me,” he said, grinning amiably.
“The Sussex constabulary is quelled for the hour.”
“But, Mr. Furneaux, I recognize that hat!” said Doris, and it was
notable that even Hart remained silent.
The detective looked at her strangely, but put no question.
“I am almost sure it belongs to our local Amateur Dramatic Society,”
went on the girl. “It was worn by Mr. Elkin last November. He played a
burlesque of Svengali. I was Trilby, and caught a horrid cold from
walking about without shoes or stockings.”
“Don’t tell me any more,” was Furneaux’s surprising comment. “I’ll do
the rest. But let me remark, Miss Martin, that I experienced great
difficulty, not so long ago, in persuading friend Grant that you were
the only important witness this case has provided thus far. Playing in
a burlesque, were you? We’ve been similarly engaged to-night. The farce
must stop now. It makes way for grim tragedy. Not one word of
to-night’s events to anyone, please.... Are you ready?”
Doris stood up. Hart thrust the negro’s head at the detective.
“Fouché,” he said, “do you honestly mean slinging your hook without
making any inquiry as to Owd Ben?”
“Oh, the ghost!” said Doris eagerly. “The Bateses would think of him,
of course. An old farmer named Ben Robson used to live in this house
about the time of Napoleon. He was suspected by the authorities to be
an agent of the smugglers, and the story goes that his own daughter
quarreled with him and betrayed him. He narrowly escaped hanging, owing
to his age, I believe, and was sentenced to a long term of
imprisonment. At last he was released, being then a very old man, and
he came straight here and strangled his daughter. It is quite a
terrible story. He was found dead by her side. Then people remembered
that she had spoken of someone scaring her by looking in through that
small window some nights previously. Naturally, a ghost was soon
manufactured. I really wonder why the man who rebuilt and renamed the
place in the middle of last century didn’t have the window removed
altogether.”
“Glad I began the work of demolition tonight,” said Hart, and, for
once, his tone was serious.
“Why did you never tell me that scrap of history, Doris?” inquired
Grant.
“You liked the place so much that father and I agreed not to mar your
enthusiasm by recalling an unpleasant legend,” she said frankly. “Not
that what I’ve related isn’t true. The record appears in a Sussex
Miscellany of those years.... Oh, my goodness, can it be eleven
o’clock!”
The hall clock had no doubt on the point. Furneaux pocketed the written
notes regarding Ingerman, and grabbed the hat off the table. Grant, for
some reason, was aware that the detective repressed an obvious
reference to the last occasion on which the girl had heard that same
clock announce the hour.
Furneaux would allow no other escort. He and Doris made off
immediately.
When they were gone, Hart stared fixedly at an empty decanter.
“My dim recollection of your port, Jack, is that it was a wine of many
virtues and few vices,” he mused aloud.
Grant took the hint, and went to a cellar. Returning, he found his
crony poring over the book which, singularly enough, figured
prominently on each occasion when the specter-producing window was
markedly in evidence. Hart glanced up at his host, and nodded
cheerfully at a dust-laden bottle.
“What is there in ‘The Talisman’ which needed so much research?” he
asked.
“Some lines by Sir David Lindsay, quoted by Scott,” was the answer.
“Are these they?” And Hart read:
_One thing is certain in our Northern land;
Allow that birth, or valor, wealth, or wit,
Give each precedence to their possessor,
Envy, that follows on such eminence,
As comes the lyme-hound on the roebuck’s trace,
Shall pull them down each one._
“Yes,” said Grant.
“Love isn’t mentioned. The fair Doris will be true. You’re in luck, my
boy. But somebody is out for your blood, and here is clear warning. Gee
whizz! If I remain in Steynholme a week I shall become an occultist.
What is a lyme-hound?”
“‘Lyme,’ or ‘leam,’ is the old-time word for ‘leash.’”
“Good!” said Hart. “That will appeal to Furneaux. Have him in to dinner
every day, Jack. He’s a tonic!”
Furneaux, for some reason known only to himself, did not accompany
Doris to the post office. Once they were across the bridge, and the
broad village street, more green than roadway, was seen to be empty, he
tapped her on the shoulder and said pleasantly:
“Run away home now, little girl. Sleep well, and don’t worry. The
tangle will right itself in time.”
“Poor Mr. Grant is suffering,” she ventured to murmur.
“And a good thing, too. It will steady him. Hurry, please. I’ll wait
here till you are behind a locked door.”
“No one in Steynholme will hurt me,” she said.
“You never can tell. I’m not taking any chances to-night, however.”
So Doris sped swiftly up the hill. Arrived at her house, she waved a
hand to the detective, who flourished his straw hat in response. A fine
June night in England is never really dark, so the two could not only
see each other but, when Doris disappeared, Furneaux, turning sharply
on his heel, was able to make out the sudden straightening of a pucker
in the blind of a ground-floor room in P. C. Robinson’s abode.
The detective walked straight there, and tapped lightly on the window.
Robinson, after an affected delay, came to the door.
“Who’s there?” he demanded.
“As if you didn’t know,” laughed Furneaux.
Robinson turned a key, and looked out.
“Oh, it’s you, sir?” he cried.
“You’ll get tired of saying that before I quit Steynholme,” said the
detective. “May I come in? No, don’t show a light here. Let’s chat in
the back kitchen.”
“I was just going to have a bite of supper, sir,” began Robinson
apologetically. “It’s laid in the kitchen. On’y bread and cheese an’ a
glass of beer. Will you join me?”
“With pleasure, if I hadn’t stuffed myself at Grant’s place. Nice
fellow, Grant. Pity you and he don’t seem to get on together. Of
course, we policemen cannot allow friendship to interfere with duty,
but, between you and me, Robinson—strictly in confidence—Grant had no
more to do with the actual murder of Miss Melhuish than either of us
two.”
Robinson had turned up a lamp, and hospitably installed Furneaux in his
own easy-chair.
“The ‘actual murder,’ you said, sir?” he repeated.
“Yes. It was his presence at _The Hollies_ which brought an infatuated
woman there, and thus directly led to her death. That is all. Grant is
telling the truth. I assure you, Robinson, I never allow myself to
break bread with a man whom I may have to convict. So, I’ll change my
mind, and take a snack of your bread and cheese.”
The village constable, by no means a fool, grinned at the implied
tribute. What he did not appreciate so readily was the fact that his
somewhat massive form was being twiddled round the detective’s little
finger.
“Right you are, sir,” he cried cheerily. “But, if Mr. Grant didn’t kill
Miss Melhuish, who did!”
“In all probability, the man who wore that hat,” chirped Furneaux,
taking a nondescript bundle from a coat pocket, and throwing it on the
table.
Robinson started. This June night was full of weird surprises. He set
down a jug of beer with a bang—his intent being to fill two glasses
already in position, from which circumstance even the least observant
visitor might deduce a Mrs. Robinson, _en negligé_, hastily flown
upstairs.
He examined the hat as though it were a new form of bomb.
“By gum!” he muttered. “Are these bullet-holes?”
“They are.”
“An’ is this what someone fired at?”
“Yes.”
“But how in thunder—”
He checked himself in time. He did not want to admit that he had been
watching the only recognized road to Grant’s house all the evening.
“Quite so!” chortled Furneaux, with admirable misunderstanding. “You’re
quick on the trigger, Robinson—almost as quick as that friend of
Grant’s who arrived by the 5.30 from London. You perceive at once that
no ordinary head could have worn that hat without having its hair
combed by the same bullet. It was stuck on to a thick wig. Now, tell me
the man, or woman, in Steynholme, who wears a wig and a hat like that,
and you and I will guess who killed Miss Melhuish.”
Robinson suspected that, as he himself would have put it, his leg was
being pulled rather violently. Furneaux read his face like a printed
page. Chewing, much against his will, a mouthful of bread and cheese,
he mumbled in solemn, broken tones:
“Think—Robinson. Don’t—answer—offhand. Has—anybody—ever worn—such
things—in a play?”
Then the policeman was convinced, galvanized by memory, as it were.
“By gum!” he cried again. “Fred Elkin—in a charity performance last
winter.”
Furneaux choked with excitement.
“A horsey-looking chap, on to-day’s jury,” he gurgled.
“That’s him!”
“The scoundrel!”
“No wonder he looked ill.”
“No wonder, indeed. How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds makes
ill deeds done!”
“But, sir—”
Robinson was flabbergasted. He could only murmur “Fred Elkin!” in a
dazed way.
“Have a drink,” said Furneaux sympathetically. “I’ll wet my whistle,
too. Only half a glass, please. Now, we mustn’t jump to conclusions.
This Elkin looks a villain, but may not be one. That is to say, his
villainy may be confined to dealings in nags. But you see, Robinson,
what a queer turn this affair is taking. We must get rid of
preconceived notions. Superintendent Fowler and you and I will go into
this matter thoroughly to-morrow. Meanwhile, breathe not a syllable to
a living soul. If I were you, I’d let Mr. Grant understand that we
regard him as rather outside the scope of our inquiry. This beer is
very good for a country village. You know a good thing when you see it,
I expect. Pity I don’t smoke, or I’d join you in a pipe. I must get a
move on, now, or that fat landlord will be locking me out. Good night!
Yes. I’ll take the hat. _Good_ night!”
While walking up the hill Furneaux fanned himself with the straw hat.
“One small bit of my brain is evidently a hereditary bequest from a
good-natured ass!” he communed. “Here am I, Furneaux, plagued beyond
endurance by a first-class murder case, and I must go and busy myself
with the love affair of a postmaster’s daughter and a feather-headed
novelist!”
When Tomlin admitted him to the Hare and Hounds, he buttonholed the
landlord, who, at that hour, was usually somewhat obfuscated.
“Sir,” said the detective gravely, “I am told that you Steynholme folk
indulge occasionally in such frivolities as amateur theatricals?”
“Once in a way, sir. Once in a way. Afore I lock up the bar, will you—”
“Not to-night. I’ve mixed port and beer already, and I’m only a little
fellow. Now you, Mr. Tomlin, can mix anything, I fancy?”
“I’ve tried a few combinations in me time, sir.”
“But, about these theatrical performances—is there any scenery,
costumes, ‘props’ as actors call them?”
“Yes, sir. They’re stored in the loft over the club-room—the room where
the inquest wur held.”
“What, _here_?”
Furneaux’s shrill cry scared Mr. Tomlin.
“Y-yes, sir,” he stuttered.
“Is that my candle?” said the detective tragically. “I’m tired, dead
beat. To-night, Mr. Tomlin, you are privileged to see the temporary
wreck of a noble mind. God wot, ’tis a harrowing spectacle.”
Furneaux skipped nimbly upstairs. Tomlin proceeded to lock up.
“It’s good for trade,” he mumbled, “but I’ll be glad when these ’ere
Lunnon gents clears out. They worry me, they do. Fair gemme a turn, ’e
did. A tec’, indeed! He’s nothin’ but a play-hactor hisself!”