SHOWS LIGHTS FROM THE MIST
"But Edward Craig is a young man--while Gregory must be nearly seventy!"
I exclaimed, staring at Dr. Sladen in blank amazement.
"Exactly. I attended Mr. Gregory a month ago for influenza. But I tell
you the body lying yonder is that of young Craig!" declared my friend.
Then he added: "There is something very extraordinary about the whole
affair, for Craig was made up to exactly resemble his uncle."
"And because of it was apparently done to death, eh?"
"That is certainly my theory."
"Amazing," I exclaimed. "This increases the mystery very considerably."
Then, gazing around, I saw that the two doctors, who had assisted Sladen
in his examination, were talking aside eagerly with the detective, while
Mr. Day, a short thick-set man, with his white-covered cap removed in
the presence of the dead, had joined the party.
Cromer is a "war-station," and Mr. Day was a well-known figure in the
place, a fine active type of the British sailor, who had seen many years
afloat, and now, with his "sea-time" put in, was an expert signal-man
ashore. He noticed me and saluted.
"Look," exclaimed Dr. Sladen, taking me across to a bench against the
side of the life-boat shed. "What do you think of these?" and he took up
a white wig and a long white beard.
I examined them. Then slowly replied, "There is much, very much more, in
this affair than any of us can at present see."
"Certainly. Why should the young man go forth at night, under cover of
darkness, made up to exactly resemble the old one?"
"To meet somebody in secret, no doubt; and that somebody killed him," I
said.
"Did they--ah, that's just the point," said the doctor. "As far as we
can find there's no apparent cause of death, no wound whatever. The
superficial examination we have made only reveals a slight abrasion on
the left wrist, which might have been caused when he fell from the seat
to the ground. The wrist is much swollen--from a recent sprain, I think.
But beyond that we can find nothing."
"Won't you prosecute your examination further?" I asked.
"Certainly. This afternoon we shall make a post-mortem--after I get the
order from the coroner."
"Ah. Then we shall know something definite?"
"I hope so."
"Gentlemen," exclaimed Inspector Frayne, addressing us all, "this latest
discovery, of the identity of the victim, is a very extraordinary and
startling one. I trust that you will all regard the matter as one of the
greatest secrecy--at least till after the inquest. Publicity now may
defeat the ends of justice. Do you all promise?"
With one accord we promised. Then, crossing to where the body lay, I
lifted the heavy brown sail that covered it, and in the dim light gazed
upon the white, dead countenance.
Yes. It was the face of Edward Craig.
Frayne at that moment came up, and after two men had taken the covering
from the body, commenced to search the dead man's pockets. In the old
mackintosh cape was a pouch, from which the detective drew a small
wallet of crocodile leather, much worn, together with two letters. The
latter were carried to the light and at once examined.
One proved to be a bill from a well-known hatter in Piccadilly. The
superscription on the other envelope, of pale blue-grey paper, was
undoubtedly in the hand of an educated woman.
Frayne drew from this envelope a sheet of notepaper, which bore neither
address nor date, merely the words--
"At Ealing, at 10 p.m., on the twenty-ninth of August, where the two C's
meet."
"Ah, an appointment," remarked Frayne. Then, looking at the post-mark,
he added: "It was posted the day before yesterday at Bridlington. I
wonder what it means?"
"I see it is addressed to Mr. Gregory!" I pointed out, "not to the dead
man."
"Then the old man had an appointment on the twenty-ninth of August
somewhere in Ealing--where the two C's meet. I wonder where that can be?
Some agreed-on spot, I suppose, where two persons, whose initials are C,
are in the habit of meeting."
"Probably," was my reply. But I was reflecting deeply.
In the wallet were four five-pound notes; a few of Gregory's cards; a
letter from a local charity, thanking him for a contribution of two
guineas; and a piece of paper bearing a number of very elaborate
calculations, apparently of measured paces.
It seemed as though the writer had been working out some very difficult
problem of distances, for the half-sheet of quarto paper was absolutely
covered with minute pencilled figures; lengths in metres apparently.
I looked at them, and at a glance saw that old Gregory had either
received his education abroad, or had lived for a long time upon the
continent when a young man. Why? Because, when he made a figure seven,
he drew a short cross-stroke half-way up the downward stroke, in order,
as foreigners do, to distinguish it from the figure one.
"I wonder what all these sums can mean?" remarked the detective, as
Treeton and I looked over his shoulder.
"Mr. Gregory was a business man," the local police officer said. "These
are, no doubt, his things, not his nephew's."
"They seem to be measurements," I said, "not sums of money."
"Perhaps the old man himself will tell us what they are," Frayne
remarked. Then again examining the wallet, he drew forth several slips
of thin foreign notepaper, which were carefully folded, and had the
appearance of having been carried there for a long time. Upon each was
written a separate word, together with a number, in carefully-formed
handwriting, thus--
"Lavelle 429; Kunzle 191; Geering 289; Souweine 17; Hodrickx 110."
The last one we opened contained the word, "Cromer 900," and I wondered
whether they were code words.
"These are rather funny, Mr. Vidal," Frayne remarked, as he slowly
replaced them in the wallet. "A little mysterious, eh?"
"No doubt, old Mr. Gregory will explain," I said. "The great puzzle to
me is why the nephew should carry the uncle's belongings in his
pockets. There was some deep motive in it, without a doubt."
Frayne returned to the body and made further search. There was nothing
more in the other pockets save a handkerchief, some loose silver and a
pocket-knife.
But, around the dead man's neck, suspended by a fine gold chain, and
worn beneath his shirt, was a lady's tiny, round locket, not more than
an inch in diameter, and engine-turned like a watch, a thin,
neatly-made, old-fashioned little thing.
Frayne carefully unclasped it, and taking it across to the light, opened
it, expecting to find a photograph, or, perhaps, a miniature. But there
was nothing. It had evidently not been opened for years, for behind the
little glass, where once had been a photograph, was only a little grey
powder. Something had been preserved there--some relic or other--that
had, with age, crumbled into dust.
"This doesn't tell us much," he said. "Yet, men seldom wear such things.
Some relic of his sweetheart, eh?" Then he searched once more, and drew
from the dead man's hip-pocket a serviceable Browning revolver, the
magazine of which was fully loaded.
"He evidently expected trouble, and was prepared for it," Treeton said,
as the Norwich detective produced the weapon.
"Well, he certainly had no time to use it," responded Frayne. "Death
must have been instantaneous."
"I think not," I ventured. "If so, why was he found several feet away
from the seat?"
Again Frayne showed impatience. He disliked any expression of outside
opinion.
"Well, Mr. Vidal, we've not yet established that it is a case of murder,
have we?" he said. "The young man may have died suddenly--of natural
causes."
I smiled.
"Curious," I exclaimed, a moment later, "that he should be made up to so
exactly resemble his uncle! No, Inspector Frayne, if I'm not greatly
mistaken, you'll find this a case of assassination--a murder by a very
subtle and ingenious assassin. It is a case of one master-criminal
against another. That is my opinion."
The man from Norwich smiled sarcastically. My opinion was only the
opinion of a mere amateur, and, to the professional thief-catcher, the
amateur detective is a person upon whom to play practical jokes. The
amateur who dares to investigate a crime from a purely independent
standpoint is a man to jeer and laugh at--a target for ridicule.
I could follow Frayne's thoughts. I had met many provincial police
officers of his type all over Europe, from Paris up to Petersburg. The
great detectives of Europe, are, on the contrary, always open to listen
to theories or suggestions.
The three doctors were standing aside, discussing the affair--the
absence of all outward signs of anything that might have caused death.
Until the coroner issued his order they could not, however, put their
doubts at rest by making the post-mortem examination. The case puzzled
them, and they were all three eager to have the opportunity of deciding
how the young man had died.
"The few symptoms offered superficially have some strange points about
them," I heard Dr. Sladen say. "Do you notice the clenched hands? and
yet the mouth is open. The eyes are open too--and the lips are curiously
discoloured. Yes, there is decidedly something very mysterious attaching
to the cause of death."
And he being the leading practitioner in Cromer, his two colleagues
entirely agreed with him.
After a long conversation, in which many theories--most of them
sensational, ridiculous, and baseless--had been advanced, Mr. Day, the
Chief Officer of Coast-guard, who had been outside the life-boat house,
chatting with some friends, entered and told us the results of some of
his own observations regarding the movements of the eccentric Mr.
Gregory. Day was a genial, pleasant man and very popular in Cromer. Of
course he was in ignorance that the body discovered was not that of the
old gentleman.
"I've had a good many opportunities of watching the old man, Mr. Vidal,"
said the short, keen-eyed naval man, turning to me with his hands in the
pockets of his pea-jacket, "and he was a funny 'un. He often went out
from Beacon House at one and two in the morning, and took long strolls
towards Rimton and Overstrand. But Mrs. Dean never knew as he wasn't
indoors, for I gather he used to let himself out very quietly. We often
used to meet him a-creepin' about of a night. I can't think what he went
out for, but I suppose he was a little bit eccentric, eh? Why," went on
the coast-guard officer, "he'd often come into the station early of a
mornin', and have a chat with me, and look through the big telescope. He
used, sometimes, to stand a-gazin' out at the sea, a-gazin' at nothing,
for half an hour on end--lost in thought like. I wonder what he fancied
he saw there?"
"Yes," I said. "He was eccentric, like many rich men."
"Well, one night, not long ago," Day went on, "there were some
destroyers a-passin' about midnight, and we'd been taking in their
signals by flash-light, when, in the middle of it, who should come into
the enclosure but old Mr. Gregory. He stood a-watchin' us for ten
minutes or so. Then, all at once he says, 'I see they're signalling to
the _Hermes_ at Harwich.' This remark gave me quite a start, for he'd
evidently been a-readin' all we had taken in--and it was a confidential
message, too."
"Then he could read the Morse code," I exclaimed.
"Read it? I should rather think he could!" was the coast-guard officer's
reply. "And mark you, the _Wolverene_ was a-flashin' very quick. It was
as much as I could do to pick it up through the haze. After that, I
confess I didn't like him hanging about here so much as he did. But
after all, I'm sorry--very sorry--that the poor old gent is dead."
"Did you ever see him meet anybody on his nightly rambles?" I asked.
"Yes, once. I saw him about six weeks ago, about three o'clock one dark,
and terrible wet, mornin', out on the cliff near Rimton Gap. As I passed
by he was a-talkin' to a tall young man in a drab mackintosh. Talkin'
excited, he was, and a-wavin' his arms wild-like towards the sea. The
young man spotted me first, and said something, whereupon the old gent
dropped his argument, and the two of 'em walked on quietly together. I
passed them, believing that his companion was only one of them
simple-like fools we get about here sometimes in the summer. But I'd
never seen him in Cromer. He was a perfect stranger to me."
"That's the only time you've seen him with any companion on these secret
night outings?" I asked.
"Yes. I don't remember ever having seen him in the night with anybody
else."
"Not even with his nephew?"
"No, not even with Mr. Craig."
"When he dropped in to chat with you at the coastguard station, did he
show any inquisitiveness?" I asked.
"Well, he wanted to know all about things, as most of 'em do," laughed
Day. "Ours is a war-station, you know, and folk like to look at the
inside, and the flash-lamp I invented."
"The old fellow struck you as a bit of a mystery, didn't he?" Frayne
asked, in his pleasant Norfolk brogue.
"Well, yes, he did," replied the coast-guard officer. "I remember one
night last March--the eleventh, I think it was--when our people at
Weybourne detected some mysterious search-lights far out at sea and
raised an alarm on the 'phone all along the coast. It was a very dirty
night, but the whole lot of us, from Wells right away to Yarmouth, were
at once on the look-out. We could see search-lights but could make
nothing of the signals. That's what puzzled us so. I went out along the
cliff, and up Rimton way, but could see nothing. Yet, on my way back, as
I got near the town, I suddenly saw a stream of light--about like a
search-light--coming from the sea-front here. It was a-flashin' some
signal. I was a couple of miles from the town, and naturally concluded
it was one of my men with the flash-lamp. As I passed Beacon House,
however, I saw old Mr. Gregory a-leanin' over the railings, looking out
to sea. It was then about two o'clock. I supposed he had seen the
distant lights, and, passing a word with him, I went along to the
station. To my surprise, I found that we'd not been signalling at all.
Then I recollected old Mr. Gregory's curious interest in the lights, and
I wondered. In fact, I've wondered ever since, whether that answering
signal I saw did not come from one of the front windows of Beacon House?
Perhaps he was practisin' Morse!"
"Strange, very strange!" Frayne remarked. "Didn't you discover what
craft it was making the signals?"
"No, sir. They are a mystery to this day. We reported by wire to the
Admiralty, of course, but we've never found out who it was a-signalling.
It's a complete mystery--and it gave us a bit of an alarm at the time, I
can tell you," he laughed. "There was a big Italian yacht, called the
_Carlo Alberta_, reported next day from Hunstanton, and it may, of
course, have been her. But I am not inclined to think so."