Juliet failed to extract much comfort from Gimblet when, about six
o'clock, she met him coming up through the garden to Inverashiel Cottage.
All the afternoon she had possessed her soul in what patience she could
muster, which was not a great deal. Still, by dint of repeating to
herself that she must give the detective time to study the facts, and
opportunity to verify them at his leisure and in his own way, she had
managed to get through the long inactive hours, and to force herself not
to dwell upon the vision of David in prison, which, do as she would, was
ever before her eyes.
Events had followed one another so fast during the last few days that her
mind was dulled, as by a succession of rapid blows, and she was hardly
conscious of anything beyond the unbearable pain caused by the cumulative
shocks she had undergone.
First had come the heart-rending knowledge that David loved her;
heart-rending only because he was bound to Miss Tarver, for, if it had
not been for that paralyzing obstacle, she knew she would have gladly
followed him to the ends of the earth. Indeed, in spite of everything,
his betrayal of his feelings towards her had filled her with a joy that
almost counterbalanced the hopeless misery to which, on her more
completely realizing the situation, it gradually gave place.
Then had come the swift physical disaster from which she had barely
escaped with her life. She had not had time to recover from this when, a
few hours later, she had been called upon to face the emotions and
agitations aroused by the news of her relationship to Lord Ashiel, and
the history of her birth and parentage. In the midst of this excitement
had come the sudden tragedy of which she had been a witness, and which
had overwhelmed and prostrated her with grief and horror. Next day she
had been obliged to undergo the ordeal of being cross-questioned by the
police, and close upon that had come the final catastrophe of David's
arrest and departure. This last shock so overshadowed all the rest of her
misfortunes that it stimulated her to action, and she had herself run
most of the way to the post office two miles down the road, to send the
telegram of appeal to Gimblet.
Once that was dispatched, hope revived a little in her heart.
Lord Ashiel, her father, had told her to send for the detective if she
were in trouble. Well, she was in trouble; she had sent for him; he would
come, and somehow he would find a way of putting straight this hideous
nightmare in which she found herself living. How happy, in comparison,
had been her life in Belgium, in the household of her adopted father and
stepmother! She could have found it in her heart to wish she had never
left their roof; but that would have involved never making the
acquaintance of David, a possibility she could not contemplate.
Even now the remembrance of the rapidity with which Miss Tarver had
packed her traps, renounced her betrothed and all his works, and fled
from the scene of disaster by the first available train, did much to
cheer her in the midst of all her depression.
It was not, however, until some time after Lady Ruth Worsfold had asked
her to stay with her for the present, and she had removed herself and her
belongings to the cottage, that she realized how impossible it was for
her to make good her position as Lord Ashiel's daughter and heir. She had
his word for it, and that was enough for her; but she understood, as soon
as it occurred to her, that more would be required by the law before she
could claim either the name or the inheritance which should be hers.
In the meantime, though touched by the generosity of the new Lord Ashiel,
who offered to waive his rights in her favour, and indeed suggested other
plans for enabling her to remain at the castle as its owner, she felt
that what he proposed was absolutely impossible, and while she thanked
him, declined firmly to do anything of the sort.
At the back of her mind was the conviction that the will her father had
spoken of would come to light. It would surely be found, if not by
herself, then by Gimblet. She acceded to Mark's request that she should
join him in looking through his uncle's papers. They went over those in
the library together before she left the house.
Now that Gimblet had come back from the castle, where he had spent half
the day, he must have good news for her, she felt persuaded. But to all
her questions he would only reply that he had nothing definite to tell
her, and that she must wait till to-morrow or even longer. Indeed, she
thought he seemed anxious to get away from her, and asked at once if he
might see his room.
"I want a bath more than anything," he said. And then, taking pity on her
distress, "I wouldn't worry myself too much about Sir David's safety if I
were you," he added, looking at her with a very kind, friendly light in
his eyes. But as she exclaimed joyfully and pressed him to be more
explicit, his look changed to one of admonition, and he held a finger to
his lips. "Not a word to a living soul, whoever it may be," he cautioned
her, "and be careful not to show any hope you may be so optimistic as to
feel," he added, smiling, "or you may ruin the whole thing. This is a
very dark and dangerous affair, and the less it is spoken about, even
between friends, the better."
"Mayn't I even tell Lady Ruth?" she asked. "She is very anxious, I know."
"Better not," he warned her. "It may be better for Sir David in the
long-run, if his friends think him guilty a few days longer. It will be
wisest if you let it appear that even you can hardly continue to cling
to the idea of his innocence. You can be trusted to act a part where
such great issues are involved, can you not? More may depend on it than
you think."
"I'll be silent as the grave," she cried. "As the grave," she repeated
more soberly, and turned away, reproaching herself silently, since in her
anxiety for David her sorrow for her father had been a moment forgotten.
When Gimblet came down again, clean and refreshed, he found no one but
his hostess, Lady Ruth Worsfold.
Lady Ruth's hair was white, in appearance she was short and squat, and
she had a curiously disconnected habit of conversation, but for all that
she was a person of great discernment, and uncommonly wide awake. She
sided staunchly with Juliet in her belief in David's innocence.
"Never," she said, "will I credit such a thing of the lad. You may say
what you like, Mr. Gimblet, you can prove till you're black in the
face that he murdered every soul in the house, it won't make any
difference to me."
"Who do you think did do it, Lady Ruth?" Gimblet asked.
"What do I know? An escaped lunatic, one of the keepers, the under
housemaid, anyone you like. What does it matter? It wasn't David, even
though his namesake did kill Goliath, and I always disliked the name,
having suffered from a Biblical one myself. I said to his mother when he
was born. 'For goodness' sake give the poor child a name he won't be
expected to live up to. Just fancy how his friends will hate to be known
as Jonathans, let alone thingamy's wife. You're laying up a scandal for
your son,' I told her, and if my words haven't come true it's more thanks
to him than to his parents. A nice pink and white baby he was, poor boy.
There's just one good side to this dreadful affair," she went on without
a pause, "and that is that the young lady with the dollars whom he was to
have married, and hated the sight of, has thrown him over. The first
least little breath of suspicion was enough for her, and the moment he
was downright accused she was off. And he's well rid of her, dollars and
all. An Englishman of his birth and looks doesn't need to go to Chicago
for a wife."
"Was Sir David in need of money?" asked Gimblet.
"He hasn't got a penny," said Lady Ruth. "Not a red cent, as that
terrible young woman put it. His father left everything to the
moneylenders, so to speak, and David couldn't bear to see his mother
poverty-stricken. He did it entirely for her sake--got engaged, I
mean--but I don't think he'd have been such a self-sacrificing son if
he'd met Miss Juliet Byrne a little earlier in the day."
"Indeed!" said Gimblet. "I thought Miss Byrne seemed very much worried
about his arrest."
"Worried? Poor child, she's the ghost of what she was a few days ago.
Half-drowned, too, when it happened, which made it worse for her."
"She must have had a narrow escape," Gimblet remarked. "What was the name
of the man who pulled her out of the river?"
"Andy Campbell. He had been stalking with Mark McConachan."
"Was young Lord Ashiel with him?"
"No, he was on ahead. He saw Juliet in the distance, just going up to the
waterfall, but he seems to have taken her for Miss Romaninov, which is
odd, because they aren't in the least like one another, one being tall
and the other short, in the first place, and one fair and the other dark
in the second. He can't have looked very carefully. However, he was very
positive about it till they both assured him that Julia Romaninov had
turned and gone home some time before she had reached the top pool. And I
certainly should have in her place. It doesn't amuse me scrambling over
rocks and scratching my legs in bramble bushes. The path Andy came by
goes along high above the water for half a mile. I hate walking on a
height myself. And for most of that distance the river is not in sight.
If he hadn't been thirsty and come down to the water-side for a drink at
a spring near by, he would never have seen Miss Byrne floating down the
stream, and she would have been in the loch pretty soon. It just shows
how much better it is to drink water than whisky."
"It was lucky he did," said Gimblet. "Does the path pass in sight of the
pool she fell into?"
"No. The banks are high there, and you can't see down into the pool
unless you go to the very edge of the precipice. I did it once, to look
at the waterfall, and I very nearly joined it. It's a nasty giddy place,
though why one should feel inclined to throw oneself down I can't
imagine; but it seems a natural instinct, and it's certainly easier to go
down than up."
"It appears almost miraculous that she wasn't drowned," said Gimblet.
"She certainly can have been in no fit state to bear the events that
followed."
"No, indeed. She has lost everything: father, family and lover at one
blow. You know Lord Ashiel said she was his daughter, and told her he'd
made a will leaving everything to her. For that matter the lawyers say he
didn't--not that I should ever believe anything a lawyer said. They
always mean something you wouldn't expect from their words. They do it, I
believe, to keep in practice for trials, you know, where they have to
make the witnesses say what they don't mean, poor things. And what I
shall have put into my mouth by them, if I'm called as a witness against
poor David, doesn't bear thinking of. But the Lord knows what Ashiel did
with the will, and, as I was saying, it can't be found."
"So I heard," said Gimblet "You talk of being called as a witness, Lady
Ruth. Do you know anything about the case? Where were you when the shot
was fired?"
"Oh no," she said, "I shouldn't have anything to tell, but I don't
suppose that will matter. They'll twist and turn my words till I find
myself saying I saw him do it with my own eyes. My poor dear husband,
when I first met him, was an eminent Q.C., as you may know, Mr. Gimblet,
so I have a very good idea what they're like. I refused him point-blank
when he proposed, but he proved to me in three minutes that I'd really
accepted him; and it was the same thing ever after. A wonderfully
brilliant man, though slightly trying at times, especially in church,
where he always snored so unnecessarily loud--or so it seemed to me. I
often think deafness has its compensations, though I'm sure I ought to be
thankful at my age that my hearing is still so acute. However, I didn't
hear the shot the other night, but the castle walls are thick even in
that detestable modern addition, and besides, Julia Romaninov has got
such a tremendously powerful voice,''
"Were you talking to her?"
"Oh dear no! I was playing patience, and she was singing, while Miss
Tarver murdered the accompaniment. We little thought at the time that
some one else was murdering poor Ashiel while we were sitting there in
peace. I must say that girl sings remarkably well, and it was a pity
there was no one who could play for her. Though it wasn't for want of
practice on Miss Tarver's part. The moment we were out of the
dining-room she would sit down at the piano, and they would neither of
them stop till bedtime."
"Had they both been playing and singing all that evening?"
"Yes, they hadn't ceased for a moment, and I found it prevented the Demon
from coming out, as I couldn't help counting in time with the music. It
was all right when it was one, two, three, but common time muddled it
dreadfully, though now I come to think of it, Julia was not actually in
the room when we heard the bad news. She'd gone upstairs to look for a
song or something. Of course there's no legal proof that Juliet really is
his child," Lady Ruth continued; "she admits that he was rather vague
about it, fancied a resemblance, in fact. Not that I or anyone else had
any notion he had been married as a young man, but that's a thing he
would be likely to be right about. I must say Mark has behaved extremely
well about it, even quixotically. He wanted her to take his inheritance,
and when she refused--and of course she couldn't decently do otherwise--
I'm blessed if he didn't ask her to marry him."
Gimblet looked up with more interest than he had yet shown.
"Do you mean to say he proposed that, merely as a way out of the
difficulty?"
"Well, more or less. I don't say he isn't attracted by the pretty face of
her, as much as his cousin was; privately I think he is, but I don't
really know. Anyhow, it certainly would be a very good solution; but it
was tactless of him to suggest it with David at the foot of the gallows,
poor boy."
"She didn't tell me that," murmured Gimblet.
At that moment Juliet came into the room, and they talked of other
things.
"I hear the post is gone," Gimblet said presently. "I particularly wanted to catch it. I suppose there is no means of posting a letter now?"
The last train had gone south by that time, however, so there was nothing
to be done till the next day.
He retired again to his room and gave himself up to his correspondence.
First a long letter to Macross in Glasgow, begging for the loan of prints
of the photographs taken by the police during their visit, together with
any details they might see fit to impart as to their observations and
conclusions. "I have arrived so late on the scene that you have left me
nothing to do," he wrote deceitfully. "But for the interest of the case I
should like to have a look at the photographs."
He did not expect to get much help from Macross.
Then he took from his pocket the pill-box in which he had stored the dust
so carefully collected in the gunroom. He wrapped it carefully in paper,
and addressed the small parcel to an expert analyst in Edinburgh. He
wrote one more letter, and then went downstairs again.
The dressing-bell sounded as he opened his door, and at the foot of the
staircase he met the two ladies on their way to dress.
"Dinner is at eight, Mr. Gimblet," Lady Ruth told him.
"I was just coming to find you," Gimblet answered her. "I want to ask if
you would mind my not coming down? I am subject to very bad headaches
after a long journey; and, as I want particularly to be up early
to-morrow, I think the best thing I can do is to go straight to bed and
sleep it off. It is poor sort of behaviour for a detective, I am aware,
but I hope you will forgive it."
"You must certainly go to bed if you feel inclined to," said Lady Ruth;
"but you will have some dinner in your room, will you not? They shall
bring you up the menu."
"No, really, thanks, I shall be better without anything. I know how to
treat these heads of mine by now, I assure you, and I won't have anything
to eat till to-morrow morning. The only thing I need is quiet and sleep.
If you will be so very kind as to give orders that I shall not be
disturbed...."
"Of course, of course," said his hostess, full of concern. "And you must
let me give you an excellent remedy for headaches. It was given me years
ago by dear old Sir Ronald Tompkins, that famous specialist, you know,
who always ordered every one to roll on the floor after meals, and I
invariably keep a bottle by me."
And she hurried off to fetch it.
Gimblet accepted it gratefully, and as he passed a hand across his aching
brow said he felt sure it would do him good.
Once again within his own room, however, the detective's headache seemed
to have miraculously vanished, and he showed himself in no hurry to go to
bed. Instead, having locked the door and drawn down the blind, he sat
down in an arm-chair and gave himself up to reflection. Mentally he
rehearsed the facts of the case as far as they were known to him, and was
obliged to admit that he found several of them very puzzling.
There were other problems, too, not directly connected with the murder,
of which he could not at present make head or tail. For instance, where
was he to find the documents which he knew it was Lord Ashiel's wish he
should take charge of. He had promised that he would do so, and the
recollection of his failure to guard the first thing the dead peer had
entrusted him with made him the more determined that he would carry out
the remainder of his promise. But how was he to begin his search? He had
so little to go on, and he dared not hint to anyone what he wished to
find. Yet, if he delayed, it was possible that young Ashiel would come
across the papers in his hunt for his uncle's will, and Gimblet felt
there was danger in their falling into the hands of anyone but himself.
He took out his notebook and studied the dying words of his unfortunate
client.
"Gimblet--the clock--eleven--steps." Or was it steppes?
Considering that he had lived in dread of a blow which should descend on
him out of Russia, the last seemed the more likely.
There was the strange circumstance of the body's being found by the
police in a position differing from that described by those who first saw
it. Young Ashiel, Juliet and the butler all agreed that it had fallen
forward on to the blotting-book in the middle of the table; but Mark had
told him that on his return with the police the attitude had been
changed. Had he been mistaken? Macross's photographs would show. But if
not, and the murdered man had really shifted his position, what did it
prove? That they had been wrong in thinking him dead? The doctor's
evidence was that the wound he had received must have been instantly
fatal, or almost instantly. Then some one must have moved the body, and
who but David knew where the key of the room had been put away? But why
should David have moved him?
Then there was the letter which had come two days after the murder; the
letter written in French and posted in Paris, but probably not written by
a Frenchman, and so timed as to reach its destination too late. Was it
intentionally delayed, or would Lord Ashiel's death come as an entire
surprise to the writer? It certainly would, if the police were right, and
Sir David Southern guilty of his uncle's death.
But was he guilty? Gimblet thought not.
These and other questions occupied the detective's mind so completely
that half an hour passed like a flash, and it was only when the noise of
the dinner-bell broke in upon his meditations that he roused himself and
pulled out his watch. Then he sat upright, and listened.
His room was above the drawing-room, and he could hear Lady Ruth's clear,
rather high voice mingling with the deep tones of a man's, in a confused,
murmuring duet which after a few moments died away and was followed by
the distant sound of a closing door.
It was not difficult to deduce from these sounds that Lord Ashiel had
arrived, and that the little party of three had gone in to dinner.
It was half an hour more before Gimblet rose, and walked quietly over to
the window. He drew the blind cautiously aside and looked out. Already
the days were growing shorter, and the little house, embowered in trees,
and shut in by a tall hill from the western sky, was nearly completely
engulfed in darkness. Below him, on the right, he could just discern the
top of the porch, and beyond it a faint glow of light rose from the
window of the dining-room.
It did not need a very remarkable degree of activity to clamber from the
window to the porch, and so down to the ground. To Gimblet it was as easy
as going downstairs. In two minutes he was stealing away under the trees
in the direction of Inverashiel Castle.
"The worst of this Highland air," he said to himself as he walked along,
"is that it makes one so fearfully hungry, even here on the West Coast. I
could have done very nicely with my dinner. But such is life. And it's
lucky I am not entirely without provisions."
So saying, he took a box of chocolates from his pocket and began to
demolish the contents.