The Truth at Last
Not often did Furneaux qualify an opinion by that dubious phrase, “I
think,” which, in its colloquial sense, implies that the thought
contains a reservation as to possible error.
Winter looked anxious. Both he and his colleague knew well when to drop
the good-natured banter they delighted in. They were face to face now
with issues of life and death, dark and sinister conditions which had
already destroyed one life, threatened another, and might envisage
further horrors. Small wonder, then, if the Chief Inspector’s usually
cheerful face was clouded, or that his hopes should be somewhat dashed
when Furneaux seemed to lack the abounding confidence which was his
most marked characteristic.
“You’ve got something, I see,” he said, trying to speak encouragingly,
and glancing at the bundle of clothing which Furneaux had wrapped in a
newspaper before dropping from the bedroom window of Siddle’s house.
“Yes, a lot. What to make of it is the puzzle. We either go ahead on
the flimsiest of evidence or I carry out another housebreaking job this
afternoon and restore things in status quo. First, the bundle—an old
covert-coating overcoat and a pair of frayed trousers which probably
draped Owd Ben’s ghost. They’ve been soaked in turpentine, which,
chemist or no chemist, is still the best agent for removing stains.
We’ll put ’em under the glass after we’ve examined the book. Siddle
keeps a sort of diary, a series of jumbled memoranda. If we can extract
nutriment out of that we may have something tangible to go upon. Let’s
begin at the end.”
Opening the leather-bound note-book, Furneaux stood with his back to
the window. Winter, owing to his superior height, could look over the
lesser man’s shoulder. Many an occult document affecting the famous
crimes and social or dynastic intrigues of the previous decade had
these two examined in that way, the main advantage of scrutiny in
common being that they could compare readings or suggested readings
without loss of time, and with the original manuscript before both
pairs of eyes.
In the first instance, there were no dates—only scraps of sentences, or
comments. The concluding entry in the book was:
_“A tactical error? Perhaps. Immovable.”_
Then, taking the order backward:
_“Scout the very notion of such an infamy. You and every scandal-monger
in S. may do your worst.”
“Free to confess that events have opened my eyes to the truth, so, not
for the first time, out of evil comes good.”
“A prig.”
“Visit for such a purpose a piece of unheard-of impudence.”_
These were all on one page.
“Quite clearly a _précis_ of Grant’s remarks when Siddle called on
Monday,” said Winter.
At any other time, Furneaux would have waxed sarcastic. Now he merely
nodded.
“Stops in a queer way,” he muttered. “Not a word about the inquest or
the missing bottles.”
The preceding page held even more disjointed entries, which,
nevertheless, provided a fair synopsis of Doris’s spirited words on the
Sunday afternoon.
_“Malice and ignorance.”
“Patient because of years.”
“Loyal comrade. Shall remain.”
“Code.”
“No difference in friendship.”
“E. hopeless. Contempt.”
“Skipping—good.”
On the next page:
“Isidor G. Ingerman. Useful. Inquire.”
“E.’s boasts? Nonsensical, surely!”
“Why has D. gone?”_
Both men paused at that line.
“Detective?” suggested Winter.
“That’s how I take it,” agreed Furneaux.
Then came a sign: “+10%.”
“Elkin’s mixture was not ‘as before.’ It was fortified,” grinned
Furneaux. “That’s the exact increase of nicotine. By the way, I have a
sample. We can take care of him on that charge, without a shadow of
doubt.”
Winter blew softly on the back of his friend’s head.
“You’re thorough, Charles, thorough!” he murmured. “It’s a treat to
work with you when you get really busy.”
Furneaux ran his thumb across the end of several leaves.
“I can tell you now,” he said, “that there’s nothing of real value in
the earlier notes. So far as I can judge, they refer either to a sort
of settlement with his wife or chance phrases used by Doris Martin
which might imply that she was heart whole and fancy free. There’s not
a bally word dealing with the murder, or that can be twisted into the
vaguest allusion to it. But here’s a plan and section which have a sort
of significance. I’ve seen the place, so recognized it, or thought I
did. We must check it, of course. Here you are! You know the footbridge
across the river from Bush Walk?”
“Yes.”
“The eastern end is supported on a hollow pier of masonry, in which one
might tog up unseen. These drawings would be useful as an _Aide
Memoire_ on a dark night. A false step, with the river in flood, might
be awkward.”
“What’s that on the opposite page?”
“I give it up—at present.”
This somewhat rare display of modesty on Furneaux’s part was readily
understandable. A series of straight lines and angles conveyed very
little hint of their purport; but Winter smiled behind his friend’s
back.
“I’ve been prowling about this wretched inn longer than you,” he said.
“Look outside, to the left.”
“Don’t need to, now,” cackled Furneaux. “It’s the profile of a wall,
gate, and outhouse along which one could reach the window of the
club-room. Would you mind stopping grinning like a Cheshire cat?”
“Anything else?”
“Yes. This one:
‘_S. M.? 1820_.’
That beats you, eh?”
“Dished completely.”
“Doris Martin, as usual, supplies the answer. An old volume of the
_Sussex Miscellany_, probably that for 1820, contains the full story of
Owd Ben. I might have mentioned it to you, but focussed on current
events. Siddle has it among his books, which, by the way, are made up
largely of scientific and popular criminal records.”
“Is that the lot?”
“I’m afraid so. Have a look.”
“Just a minute. I want to think.”
Winter turned and gazed through the open window. Seldom had a more
gracious June decked England with garlands. The hour was then high
noon, and a pastoral landscape was drowned in sunshine. The Chief
Inspector cut the end off a cigar dreamily but with care.
“Broadmoor—perhaps,” he muttered. “But we can’t hang him yet, Charles.
A couple of knots and a theory won’t do for the Assizes. We haven’t a
solitary witness. Hardly a night but he goes home at 9.30. If only he
had killed Grant! But—Adelaide Melhuish!”
In sheer despair he struck a match.
“Well, let’s overhaul these duds,” said Furneaux savagely. “I’ll chance
the dinner hour for the return visit. Steynholme folk eat at half past
twelve to the tick, and you can hardly get up another horse show.”
There was a knock at the door.
“Let me in, quick!” came Peters’s voice, and the handle was tried
forcibly.
“Go away! I’m busy!” cried Winter.
“This is urgent, devilish urgent,” said Peters.
Furneaux snatched up the note-book, and Winter tore off his coat,
throwing it over the package which reposed in an armchair. Then the
Chief Inspector unlocked the door, blocking the way aggressively.
“Now, I must say—” he began.
But Peters clutched his shoulder with a nervous hand.
“Siddle has just hurried up the street and entered his shop,” he
hissed.
The journalist had not only kept his eyes open, but excelled in the art
of putting two and two together, an arithmetical calculation which, as
applied to the affairs of life, is not so readily arrived at as many
people imagine.
“Buncoed! He’s missed his keys!” shrilled Furneaux.
“Confound the man! He might at least have attended his mother’s
funeral!” stormed Winter, retrieving his coat.
Thus it happened that Furneaux was the first down the stairs, though
the three emerged from the door of the inn on each other’s heels. A
stout man, in all likelihood a farmer with horses for sale, was
mounting the two steps which led to the entrance. His head was down,
and his weight forward, so he successfully resisted Furneaux’s impact,
but Peters and Winter were irresistible, and he tumbled over with a
muffled yell.
At that instant Siddle quitted his shop, and headed straight for the
post office. In his right hand he carried an automatic pistol. The
street was wide. Furneaux, absolutely fearless in the performance of
his duty, ran in a curve so as to bar the chemist’s path, and it was
then that Siddle saw him. The man’s face was terrible to behold. His
eyes were rolling, his teeth gnashing; he had bitten his tongue and
cheeks, and his stertorous breathing ejected from his mouth foam tinged
with blood.
“Ha!” he screamed in a falsetto of fury, “not yet, little man, not
yet!”
With that he raised the pistol, and fired point-blank at the detective.
Furneaux ducked, and seized a small stone, being otherwise quite
unarmed. He threw it with unerring aim, and, as was determined
subsequently, struck the hand holding the weapon. Possibly, almost by a
miracle, the blow caused a faulty pressure, because the action jammed,
though the pistol itself was most accurate and deadly in its
properties.
By this time Winter, sweeping Peters aside, was within ten feet of the
maniac, who turned and ran into the shop. The door, a solid one, fitted
with a spring lock, slammed in the Chief Inspector’s face, and resisted
a mighty effort to burst it open. A few yards away stood an empty,
two-wheeled cart, uptilted, and Winter demanded the help of a few men
who had gathered on seeing or hearing the hubbub.
“I call on you in the King’s name!” he shouted. “We must force that
door! Then stand clear, all of you!”
He raced to the cart, and, when his object was perceived, willing hands
assisted in converting the heavy vehicle into a battering-ram. The
gradient of the hill favored the attack, which was made at an acute
angle, and the first assault smashed the lock. There were a couple of
seconds’ delay while the cart was backed out, and the detectives rushed
in, Furneaux leading, because Winter gave his great physical strength
to the shafts. But the Chief Inspector grabbed his tiny friend by the
collar as the latter darted around the counter and into the dispensary
in the rear.
“Two of us can’t go abreast, and you’ll only get hurt,” he said,
speaking with a calmness that was majestic in the circumstances.
“The nicotine is gone!” yelped Furneaux; both saw that the safe stood
open.
Behind the dispensary was a small passage, whence the stairs mounted,
and a door led to the kitchen. That door was closed now, though it was
open when Furneaux ransacked the house. Therefore, they made that way
at once. No ordinary lock could resist Winter’s shoulder, and he soon
mastered this barrier. But the kitchen was empty—the outer door locked
but unbolted. Since it is practically impossible for the strongest man
to pull a door open, the two made for the window, and tore at screws
and catch with eager fingers. Furneaux, light and nimble-footed,
scrambled through first, so it was he who found Siddle lying in the
orchard beyond the wall of the yard. The unhappy wretch had swallowed
nearly the whole remaining contents of the bottle of nicotine, or
enough to poison a score of robust men. He presented a lamentable and
distressing spectacle. Some of the more venturesome passers-by, who had
crowded after the detectives and Peters, could not bear to look on, and
slunk away in horror.
Furneaux soon brought an emetic, which failed to act. Siddle breathed
his last while the glass was at his lips.
In that moment of crisis only three men did not lose their heads.
Winter cleared away the gapers, while Furneaux remained with the body.
P. C. Robinson came up the hill at a run, and was sent for a stretcher,
bringing from Hobbs’s shop the very one on which the ill-fated Adelaide
Melhuish was carried from the river bank.
But where was Peters? In the post office, writing the first of a series
of thrilling dispatches to a London evening newspaper. What journalist
ever had a more sensational murder-case to supply “copy”? And when was
“special correspondent” ever better primed for the task? He wrote on,
and on, till the telegraphist cried halt. Then he hied him to London by
train, and began the more ambitious “story” for next morning. What he
did not know he guessed correctly. A fagged but triumphant man was
Jimmie Peters when he “blew in” to the Savage Club at 1 A.M. to seek
sustenance and a whiskey and soda before going home.
Furneaux was white and shaken when Winter escorted the
stretcher-bearers to the orchard.
“Poor devil!” he said, as the men lifted the body. “Foredoomed from
birth! We can eradicate these diseases from cattle. Why not from men!”
The villagers could not understand him. Already, in some mysterious
way, the word had gone around that Siddle had murdered the actress, and
taken his own life to avoid arrest, after shooting at the detective who
was hot on his trail.
Not until Peters’s articles came back to Steynholme did the public at
large realize that the chemist undoubtedly meant to kill Doris Martin.
He was going straight to the post office when the way was barred by
Furneaux. The bullet which missed the latter actually pierced the zinc
plate of the letter-box, and scored a furrow, inches long, in an oak
counter which it struck laterally.
The village did not recover its poise for hours. Grant and Hart, to
whom Bates brought the news about one o’clock, rose from an untasted
luncheon and hurried to the high-street. Knots of people stared at
Grant, some sheepishly, others with frank relief, because all who knew
him liked him. One man, a retired ironmonger and an impulsive fellow,
came forward and wrung his hand heartily. A few prominent residents
followed suit. Grant was greatly embarrassed, but managed to endure
these awkward if well-meant congratulations. There could be no
mistaking their intent. He had been tried for murder at the bar of
public opinion, and was now formally acquitted.
Even Fred Elkin, ignorant as yet of his own peril, yielded to the
influences of the moment and bustled through the crowd.
“Mr. Grant,” he cried outspokenly, “I ask your pardon. I seem to have
made a d—d fool of myself!”
“Easier done than said,” chimed in Hart. “But, among all this
bell-ringing, can anyone tell what has actually happened? Where’s
Peters?”
“In the post office.”
The two went in, and found the journalist scribbling against time. Hart
coolly grabbed a few slips of manuscript, and commenced reading. Grant
looked about for Doris. She was not visible, but Mr. Martin, pallid and
nervous, nodded toward the sitting-room. The younger man, taking the
gesture as a tacit invitation, entered the room.
Doris was sitting there, crying bitterly. Poor girl! She had seen that
portion of the drama which was enacted in the street, and the shock of
it was still poignant. She looked up and met her lover’s eyes. Neither
uttered a word, but Grant did a very wise thing. He caught her by the
shoulders, raised her to her feet, and, after kissing her squarely on
the lips, gave her a comforting hug.
“It will be all right now, Doris,” he whispered tenderly. “Such
thunderstorms clear the air.”
An eminent novelist might have found many more ornate ways of avowing
his sentiments, but never a more satisfactory one. At any rate, it
served, so what more need be said?
Certain rills of evidence accumulated into a fair-sized stream before
night fell. P. C. Robinson, for instance, scored a point by
ascertaining that Peggy Smith had seen Furneaux dropping from the
bedroom window of the chemist’s shop. She was some hundreds of yards
away, and could not be positive that some man, perhaps a glazier, had
not been there legitimately effecting repairs. Still, when she met
Siddle hurrying from the station, she told him of the incident.
“He never even thanked me,” she said, “but broke into a run. The look
in his eyes was awful.”
The girl had, in fact, confirmed his worst fears, and her neighborly
solicitude had merely hastened the end.
Again, the railway officials showed that Siddle had returned from
Victoria instead of taking train to the asylum. Furneaux had guessed
aright. The discovery that his keys had been left behind drove the man
into a panic of fright.
It took nearly three weeks before the unhappy business was finally
disposed of. A Treasury solicitor was given the chance of his career by
the medico-legal disquisition which cleared up an extraordinary record.
The annals of the disease which predisposed Theodore Siddle to crime
went back many years. He was a fairly wealthy man by inheritance, and
adopted the profession of chemistry as a hobby. One fact stood out
boldly. He was aware of his hereditary taint, and had settled down in
Steynholme believing that a quiet life, free from care or the
distractions of a town, would enable him to overcome it. Probably, the
lawyer held, the man owned two distinct individualities, and the baser
instincts gradually overpowered the humane ones.
Of course, the whole history of those trying days had to come out in
open court, and the postmaster’s daughter was given a descriptive and
pictorial boom which many an actress envied. Peters was restored to
grace when he showed plainly that his articles had kept the fickle
barometer of public opinion at “set fair,” in so far as Grant and Doris
were concerned.
“But,” as Hart drawled during a dinner of reconciliation, “you needn’t
have been so infernally personal about my hat.”
Grant and Doris were married before the year was out. Mr. Martin
retired on a pension, and the young couple decided that they could
never dissociate _The Hollies_ from the tragic memories bound up with
its ghost-window and lawn. So the place was sold, and Steynholme knows
“the postmaster’s daughter” no more. Winter and Furneaux week-ended
with them recently at a pretty little nook in Dorset. Hart, just home
from the Balkans, traveled from town with the detectives, and Doris, a
radiant young matron, was as flippant as the best of them.
One evening, when the men were sitting late in the smoking-room, the
talk turned on the now half-forgotten drama in which the hapless
Adelaide Melhuish played her last rôle.
“I met Peters in the Savage Club the other night,” said Hart, filling
the negro-head pipe with care while he talked, “and he was chortling
about his ‘psychological study,’ as he called it, of that unfortunate
chemist. He still clings to the theory that your wife was the intended
victim, Grant. Do you agree with him?”
“Rubbish!” cried Furneaux, before his host could answer. “At best,
Peters is only a clever ass. Siddle never had the remotest notion of
killing Miss Doris Martin, as Mrs. Grant was then. We shall never know
for certain just what happened, but there are elements in the affair
which give ground for reasonable guesswork. The first thing that
impressed Winter and me—at least, I suppose I really evolved the idea,
though my bulky friend elaborated it” (whereat Winter smiled
forgivingly, and beheaded a fresh Havana) “was the complete
noiselessness of the crime. Here we had Mr. Grant startled by the face
at the window, and actually searching outside the house for the ghostly
visitant, while Miss Doris was gazing at _The Hollies_ from the other
side of the river, and not a sound was heard, though it was a summer’s
night, without a breath of wind, and at an hour when the splash of a
fish leaping in the stream would have created a commotion. Now, Miss
Melhuish was an active and well-built young woman, an actress, too, and
therefore likely to meet an emergency without instant collapse. Yet she
allows herself to be struck dead or insensible without cry or struggle!
How do you account for it?”
“Go on, Charles; don’t be theatrical,” jeered Winter. “You’ve got the
story pat. Even that simile of the jumping fish is mine.”
“True,” agreed Furneaux. “I only brought it in as a sop. But, to
continue, as the tub-thumper says. Isn’t it permissible to assume that
Siddle accompanied the lady, either by prior arrangement or by
contriving a meeting which looked like mere chance? We know that she
went to his shop. We know, too, that he was clever and unscrupulous,
and any allusion to Grant would stir his wits to the uttermost. He
would see instantly how interested Miss Melhuish was in the owner of
_The Hollies_, while she, a smart Londoner, would recognize in Siddle
an informant worth all the rest of the babblers in Steynholme. At any
rate, no matter how the thing was brought about, it is self-evident
that Siddle brought his intended victim into the grounds, and told her
of the small uncovered window through which she could peer at Grant
after Miss Doris had gone. He showed her which path to use, and
undoubtedly waited for her, and stayed her flight when Grant rose from
his chair. She was close to him, and wholly unafraid, finding in him an
ally. They were purposely hidden, in the gloom of dense foliage, and
remained there until Grant had closed the window again. Then, and not
till then, did the murderer strike, probably stifling her with his free
hand. He had the implement in his pocket. The rope was secreted among
the bushes. He could carry through the whole wretched crime in little
more than a minute. And his psychology went far deeper than Peters gave
him credit for. He had weighed up the situation to a nicety. No matter
who found the body, Mr. Grant was saddled with a responsibility which
might well prove disastrous, and was almost sure to affect his
relations with the Martin household. For instance, nothing short of a
miracle could have stopped Robinson from arresting him on a charge of
murder.”
“You, then, are a miracle?” put in Hart, pointing the pipe at the
little man.
“To the person of ordinary intelligence—yes.”
“After that,” said Winter, “there is nothing more to be said. Let’s see
who secures the pocket marvel as a partner at auction.”
As a fitting end to the strange story of wayward love and maniacal
frenzy which found an unusual habitat in a secluded hamlet like
Steynholme, a small vignette of its normal life may be etched in. The
trope is germane to the scene.
On a wet afternoon in October Hobbs and Elkin had adjourned to the Hare
and Hounds. Tomlin was reading a newspaper spread on the bar counter.
He was alone. The day was Friday, and the last “commercial” of the week
had departed by the mid-day train.
“Wot’s yer tonic?” demanded the butcher.
“A glass of beer,” threw Elkin over his shoulder. He had walked to the
window, and was gazing moodily at the sign of the “plumber and
decorator” who had taken Siddle’s shop. The village could not really
support an out-and-out chemist, so a local grocer had elected to stock
patent medicines as a side line.
Tomlin made play with a beer-pump.
“Where’s yer own?” inquired Hobbs hospitably.
Elkin came and drank. After an interlude, Tomlin ran a finger down a
column of the newspaper.
“By the way, Fred, didn’t you tell me about that funny little chap,
Furno, the ’tec, buyin’ some pictures of yours?” he said.
“I did. Had him there, anyhow,” chuckled Elkin.
“How much did you stick ’im for?”
“Three guineas.”
“They can’t ha’ bin this lot, then, though I’ve a notion it wur the
same name, ‘Aylesbury Steeplechase.’”
“What are you talking about?”
“This.”
Tomlin turned the paper, and Elkin read:
At their monthly art sale on Wednesday Messrs. Brown, Jenkins and Brown
disposed of an almost unique set of colored prints, by F. Smyth, dated
1841. The series of six represented various phases of the long defunct
Aylesbury Steeplechase, “The Start,” “The Brook,” “The In-and-Out,” and
so on to “The Finish.” It is understood that this notable series,
produced during the best period of the art, and at the very zenith of
Smyth’s fame, were acquired recently by a Sussex amateur at a low
price. Bidding began at fifty guineas, and rose quickly to one hundred
and twenty, at which figure Messrs. Carnioli and Bruschi became the
owners.
Elkin read the paragraph twice, until the words burnt into his brain.
“No,” he said thickly. “They’re not mine. No such luck!”