"WHY, DOCTOR, HE'S DEAD!"
In one moment the slow, heavy-looking constable changed, from a rustic,
loutish fellow, to a man full of intelligent observation, for, as he
raised the valance of the bed, there, indistinctly seen, was the body of
a man, either through fear or to escape observation.
With a quick motion of the hand, the constable opened the leather case
at his side, and drew his truncheon.
"Stand at the window, sir," he said to Capel. "You, sir, keep the door.
Now, then," he cried, as soon as he had been obeyed, and in a sharp,
authoritative voice. "The game's up. Out you came."
Capel set his teeth hard, for all this was horrible in that chamber of
death.
"Do you hear?" cried the constable, sharply, for there was neither word
nor movement from beneath the bed. "Oh, very well," he continued, "only
I warn you I stand no nonsense." And the occupants of the room prepared
for a struggle, with beating hearts.
The constable stepped back to them, and from behind his hand, said,
softly:
"Be ready, perhaps there's two."
He stepped back and stooped with his staff ready for a blow.
"Now, then," he cried; "is it surrender?"
There was no answer, and, he thrust his hand beneath the bed, seized the
man's leg, and dragged him out into the room, but only to loose his hold
and start away.
"Why, doctor!" he cried, "he's dead."
The doctor caught up a candlestick and dropped on one knee beside the
fresh horror, while the light from the bull's-eye was again brought to
bear, and mingled with the wan, yellow rays that struggled in through
the panes.
"Good God, gentlemen!" gasped the butler, "it's Charles."
The horribly distorted features were, indeed, those of the footman, and
the mystery of the death-chamber began to grow lighter, for it was
evident that for some reason he had entered the room in the night. For
no good mission, certainly, a short whalebone-handled life-preserver
hanging by a twisted thong from his wrist.
The hideous stains upon the kukri were clearly enough explained by the
sight of a terrible gash in the man's throat, and one of his hands was
crimsoned and smeared--the one that had left its print upon the quilt,
as, in his death struggle, he had rolled beneath the bed.
"No one else there, gentleman," said the constable, looking beneath the
bed and making his lantern play there and about the curtains, whilst as
it shed its keen light across the calm, sleeping face of the Colonel,
the man involuntarily took off his helmet and stepped back on tiptoe.
"Dead some hours," said the doctor, rising.
"It is clear enough," said Mr Girtle, in the midst of the painful
silence. "This poor Hindoo was the faithful old servant of my deceased
friend, and he died in defence of his master's property."
"Yes, yes," cried the old butler, excitedly. "Charles used to talk
about master's money and diamonds in the servants' hall. I used to
reprove him, and say that talking about such things was tempting
yourself."
"Never asked you to be in it, of course?" said the constable, going
close up to him.
"Oh, no; never, sir; but are you quite sure both him and Mr Ramo are
dead?"
"Quite," said the constable. "There, you can say what you like, but
it's my duty to tell you that I shall take down anything you say, and it
may be used in evidence against you."
"Against me!" cried the butler.
"Yes, against you."
But there was no occasion for the note-book, for Preenham closed his
lips and did not speak again.
"I think I will satisfy myself, constable, that all is safe here," said
Mr Girtle. "Gentlemen, will you come with me?"
He crossed the room, drew back the curtain over the portal and, taking
out his keys, unlocked and pushed back the door, descending with the
others into the vault-like chamber and examining the massive iron
structure in the middle.
"It is quite safe," he said, as the constable made the light of his
lantern play here and there.
"But you have not looked in the safe," said Artis, quickly.
"There is no need, sir. No one could have opened it, even with the
keys, but Ramo or myself. Nothing has been touched."
The policeman drew a long breath and they returned to the death-chamber,
Mr Girtle carefully locking the iron door.
"I don't think we shall want any detectives here, gentlemen," said the
constable; "I shall stay on the premises, but perhaps you will let the
butler--no, I think one of you, perhaps--will be good enough to send in
the first constable you see."
"I am going back," said the doctor. "I can do no more now, policeman.
I will send a man to you."
"Thankye, sir, if you will."
"Of course you will give notice to the coroner, and there will be a
post-mortem?"
"You leave that to me, sir; only send me one of our men."
They were stealing out on tiptoe, when Capel went back and drew the
heavy curtains right across the bed, to shut from the old warrior the
horrors that lay in the middle of the room. The constable, too, stepped
softly across to fasten the window. Then, following the others out, he
closed and locked the door, turning round directly, ducking down, and
involuntarily attempting to draw his truncheon, as he raised his left
arm to ward off a blow.
"Bah!" he ejaculated. "Why, it's a stature. Looked just as if it was
going to knock one down."