"After leaving you at the door of your room he must have returned to the
library," I said to Cardew. "Were all the lights out when he came up
with you?"
"By Jove! No, they were not," he replied. "He didn't turn out the
light in the passage here just outside the library door. I have not
remembered that point until this moment!"
"Did you see any newspaper about?"
"Yes, there was one lying near that armchair over there," and he pointed
to a big saddle-bag chair in dark green plush, where a large embroidered
cushion of pale violet velvet lay crushed and crumpled, just as the
unfortunate man had arisen from it.
"Then it is probable that after leaving you he made up his mind to
return to the library and read his paper as usual," I said. "He did so,
and, lighting up again, flung himself into his favourite chair to read."
"And while reading, he had the fatal seizure--eh? That, at least, is
the theory of the police," the Captain said.
"But you say that the housemaid, when she came to clean the room, found
the door locked from the outside?" I remarked. The reason I cannot
tell, but somehow, while we had been speaking, I thought I had detected
a curious mysterious evasiveness in the Captain's manner. Was he
telling all he knew?
"Yes," he said. "It was undoubtedly locked from the outside--a most
mysterious fact."
"Why mysterious?" I queried. "If Nicholson wished to commit suicide in
mysterious circumstances, he could easily have arranged that he should
be found behind locked doors. He had only to pass out by the door, lock
it, and re-enter by the library window again, and bar that. I noticed
as I came in that there is a spring-lock on the front door--so that it
locks itself when closed!"
"Ah! I had not thought of that," the Captain declared. "Of course, by
such proceeding he would have been found locked in."
"But you have suspicion of foul play," I said; "you may as well admit
that, Captain Cardew."
"Well, I see no good in concealing it," he said, with a smile. "To tell
the truth now, after well weighing the facts for more than twenty-four
hours, I have, I admit, come to a rather different conclusion to that of
the medical men."
"And I agree with you," I declared. "One point we have to consider is
what occupied poor Guy from the time when he left you until two o'clock.
He would not take an hour and a half to read a newspaper."
"No, but he might have been reading something else. He was not writing
letters, for the same thought occurred to me, and I searched for any
letters he might have written, but I could find none."
"The question arises whether he returned to the library in order to meet
somebody there in secret," I exclaimed. "They may have passed in by the
window to meet him, and afterwards out by the door, and eventually by
the front door."
His round face, with the slight fair moustache, instantly changed.
"By Jove! I've never thought of that!" he gasped. "Then your theory is
that from half-past twelve till two he was not alone, eh? What causes
you to suspect that he did not die of natural causes, Mr Kemball? I've
been quite frank with you; will you not be equally straightforward with
me?"
"Well, I have strong reasons for believing that it was to the interest
of certain persons that he should die suddenly," I said; "that's all."
"Will you not name the persons?" he asked.
"Not until I obtain proof. I may be mistaken. I may be grossly
misjudging perfectly innocent persons, therefore I make no specific
charge against anybody," was my calm reply, as I stood gazing around the
large sombre old room, whence a beautiful view of the long avenue and
the park was spread. It was a quiet, silent, restful apartment, in
which the previous owner--a great politician and writer--had spent many
studious hours.
"But if you entertain any well-founded suspicions, ought you not to put
them to the police?"
"And allow the local constables to bungle a very difficult and delicate
inquiry! Scarcely, I think," I replied, with a smile, still looking
about me, and wondering what had really happened in that long, old-world
room during the silent watches of that fatal night.
"Nothing has been touched here," Cardew remarked. "I picked up the
newspaper, but everything is left just as I found it when I rushed down
at hearing the housemaid's horrified cry."
The room was certainly in no disorder. On the big square table, covered
by a green plush cloth, were a number of new books, and in the centre a
great silver bowl filled with roses. The writing-table--an
old-fashioned mahogany one--was, I noticed, littered with letters,
bills, and receipts, the neglected correspondence of a careless man, and
as I stood there I noted that the great easy-chair wherein he had sat
was placed exactly opposite the window, while within reach, upon a small
neat shaft affixed to the wall, was the telephone instrument. Strange
that, if he felt himself suddenly ill, and had been unable to summon
assistance, he did not ring up on the telephone.
"The hammering you heard--was it quite distinct?" I inquired.
"Quite. It seems entirely feasible now that he was striving to get out
of this locked room."
The point that the door had been locked from the outside puzzled me
considerably. But a fresh suggestion arose within me--namely, that
after every one had retired, a servant, remembering that the window was
open and the door unlocked, had gone down and seen to them. Yet she
would in that case have found her master in the room, with the light
still burning. No: the only explanation was that the key had been
turned by one of the servants while passing along the corridor after her
master's return there, and while on her way to bed.
Yet, however one viewed the tragic affair, it was full of most
remarkable features. There was mystery--a great and inexplicable
mystery--somewhere.
And that mystery I now intended, at all hazards, to solve.
With that object in view, I interviewed the housemaid who found the body
of her young master, and listened to her story from her own lips.
Probably the whole household considered me to be highly inquisitive;
nevertheless, I pointed out to them the earnest necessity of clearing up
the matter to everybody's satisfaction, and both to the housekeeper, a
witty woman, and to the other servants, I declared that the facts were
full of grave suspicion.
The inspector of County Constabulary was not highly intelligent, and as
soon as the medical men had given their opinion he ceased to take any
further professional interest in the affair. It was a sudden death, and
with such occurrences the police have only to attend the inquest and
formally report.
The officer was, I think, rather piqued at the persistency of my
inquiries, for when I pointed out to him the suspicious circumstance of
the locked door, he point-blank told me that the medical declaration was
quite sufficient for him.
The girl, Kate Hayes, who discovered her master--a dark-haired,
good-looking maid, about twenty-six--had been eight years at Titmarsh
Court. It was Mr Guy's habit always to read his paper before going to
bed, she told me, as we stood in the long servants' hall.
"I often find the library door unlocked before I go to my room, sir, and
the night before last it was unlocked."
"Did you lock it?" I asked quickly.
"No, sir. I once locked Mr Guy in, so I always look inside now, before
securing it," she replied. "I looked inside, and found Mr Guy there.
He was then taking a book down from one of the shelves near the window.
I apologised for intruding, and wished him good-night. `Good-night,
Hayes,' he replied, and I closed the door and left him. I heard nothing
in the night. But when I went to the library door next morning I found
it locked. I recollect it was locked, because at first the key would
not turn. At last I succeeded in opening the door, when the first sight
that met my eyes in the faint grey light through the chinks of the
shutters was poor Mr Guy lying crouched up, his knees nearly touching
his chin and quite dead."
"You are absolutely certain that the window was quite securely closed?"
I asked.
"Captain Cardew opened it, sir. I ran away to fetch the other
servants."
Here again the Captain showed some disinclination thoroughly to probe
matters, for he interrupted, saying--
"I don't see how questioning the servants will assist us. We already
know all that they know."
"What we want to discover is whether poor Nicholson received any visitor
clandestinely during the early hours of the morning," I said. "To me,
it seems very much as though he did."
"Then you are directly opposed to the medical theory?" he exclaimed.
"And so are you, are you not?" I remarked.
"In a manner, yes--but not altogether. We must credit doctors with a
certain amount of knowledge where death is concerned."
"I credit them with every knowledge," I hastened to assure him; "only in
this case, I fear they have not sufficiently weighed over all the known
and indisputable facts."
"If there had actually been foul play, there would be traces of it," he
said.
"Not always," I replied. "Many cases of secret assassination have been
declared by doctors to have been deaths from natural causes."
I saw that the servants, all country-bred, ridiculed my suspicions.
Doctor Redwood had said that their master had died of brain disease, and
that was sufficient. The police, too, were quite satisfied, and the
young man's relations, two of whom arrived in hot haste while I was
there, of course accepted the verdict of the medical men--the evidence
which would be given at the inquest on the following day.
To me, it was a curious circumstance that Cardew, when he heard the
shriek, had not attempted to investigate its cause. True, he had
listened, and the cry was not repeated. I should have regarded his
apathy as suspicious if I myself had not more than once, when dreaming,
awakened suddenly, believing that I had heard a cry of distress.
The shriek of terror--nay, of horror, Cardew described it--was, in
itself, a most peculiar circumstance. There is a distinct difference
between a cry of pain and a shriek of horror.
No; I felt certain that the medical men had not sufficiently considered
that very singular point. But when I tried to argue with the Captain,
he merely declared that the cause of the shriek would never be
explained. Perhaps it was the sudden knowledge that he was dying that
had terrified him.
I intended, however, to seek further explanation. It was ever upon my
mind that the man who had died so mysteriously intended to visit me on
Sunday, and to reveal to me something--something concerning Harvey Shaw.
Shaw was a guest that evening, but it was proved beyond the shadow of a
doubt that he had left the house two and a half hours before,
accompanied by Asta. It was therefore my intention at once to satisfy
myself whether Shaw could have returned, unknown to the girl, and
re-visited Titmarsh Court.
I confess openly and frankly that I suspected a crime. Hence, I spared
no effort in thoroughly investigating the curious circumstances--in
doing work which the police would have done had not the declarations of
the two doctors been so very positive and emphatic.
I saw the body of my friend lying in a darkened bedroom upstairs, and
covered with a sheet. I did not remove the shroud. I was too
horrified. A post-mortem had been made, and the corpse was waiting for
the arrival of the coffin.
What had the dead man intended to reveal to me? He had evidently
discovered something detrimental to Shaw. Of that I felt assured, for
had he not admitted as much?
"Did poor Guy appear his usual self before the affair?" I asked Cardew
some half-hour later, as we again stood together in the long sombre room
wherein he had died. The atmosphere was heavy with the oppressive scent
of the roses, and about the silent apartment there seemed an air of
mystery.
"Well, to tell the truth, I did not notice anything unusual in his
manner at the time. But since--now that I have reflected--I recollect
that he seemed extremely anxious concerning Shaw's daughter--as though
he were apprehensive of something, and was in despair."
At that moment the Captain was called out by one of the servants, who
told him that the police superintendent from Northampton would like to
see him. Therefore I was left alone in the room, and was thus afforded
opportunity to examine it.
I looked at the big comfortable chair in which the unfortunate man had
sat, and tried to picture to myself what had occurred there, in the
silent watches of the night. Why had he given vent to that shriek of
horror? What had he seen?
Surely he had received some fearful, appalling shock, or such a
piercing, heartrending shriek would never have escaped a man's lips.
I examined the window, the shutters, the lock on the heavy door of
polished mahogany; but nothing caused me curiosity--nothing had been
tampered with.
My own theory was that Guy Nicholson, whilst reading his newspaper, had
seen something, and that, after shrieking in horror, he had beaten with
his hands upon the door, in frantic endeavour to escape from that room.
Imprisoned there, he had received some fatal blow before he had time to
unbar the window, and had sunk upon the floor and expired in agony.
But what was the something which had cost a man his Life?