A Mystery in the Night
Humblethorne crossed to the fireplace and rang the bell, which was
answered in a few moments by the appearance of an old man whose quiet,
impassive respectability betrayed no hint either of the tragedy which
overshadowed the house or of his own want of sleep. He allowed himself
to notice the presence of a stranger by an almost imperceptible lift
of his eyebrows before turning to Birts and saying—
“Did you ring, sergeant? Is there anything you require?”
“This is Inspector Humblethorne, Fairlie,” answered the sergeant; “he
wishes to see Mr. Castle. Not in here—in the hall.”
“Mr. Castle is in the study; I will acquaint him with your wishes,”
said Fairlie, acknowledging the introduction by turning his body
slightly towards Humblethorne and preparing to go.
“One moment,” interrupted Humblethorne. “You’re the butler, aren’t
you?”
“I am.”
“You have been here a long time?”
“That is so.”
“I shall want to ask you a few questions after I have seen Mr.
Castle.”
“I shall be happy, h’only too happy to place myself at your disposal,”
replied Fairlie, allowing a faint undercurrent of human interest to
show for the first time through the dignity of his demeanour. “Her
ladyship and Miss Celia are upset, naturally upset, if I may say so,
at the terrible event in the house, and I have had no orders; but I am
sure her ladyship would wish me to help you to the best of my
abilities and to offer you every opportunity for arriving at the
truth.”
“Thank you,” answered Humblethorne meekly, and Fairlie withdrew.
“Not quite the man you would expect Sir Roger to have had as butler,”
remarked Humblethorne; “altogether too old-fashioned and superior.”
“Yes, he came with her ladyship. He’s a bit slow, no doubt, but he has
a warm heart, has old Fairlie, and many’s the kind thing he’s done for
the people in the village. Now Sir Roger didn’t care a rap of his
fingers for the village.”
“He certainly does not seem to have been a popular figure.”
“Popular? Him popular?” The sergeant gave a short laugh which, in
deference to the dead man beside him, he tried to turn into a cough.
“Mr. Castle is in the hall,” said Fairlie, opening the door quietly.
The appearance of Philip Castle had not been improved by the tragic
events of the night; he was dressed in the same dark suit which he had
worn the previous day, but the neatness had gone from it; his tie was
badly tied and his collar was dirty. He still wore evening socks and
shoes, and it looked as if his changing had been a hasty and casual
affair. His stoop as he walked restlessly up and down on the further
side of the hall was accentuated and his pallor increased, whilst his
eyes, though still clear and bright, had a haggard as well as a tired
look.
He glanced irritably at Humblethorne as he approached, and then seemed
to look past him at the closing door with a nervous movement.
“Well!” he exclaimed, “I understand you want to ask me some more
questions about this horrible business, and here of all places. I’ve
already told you what I know, and I don’t think you quite realize how
unpleasant it is for me to talk about it.”
“Murder is an unpleasant business,” replied Humblethorne calmly. “It
is the duty of every one to do what they can to help.”
“I know. You must excuse a little irritation! I’ve been up all night.”
Humblethorne’s eyes had travelled slowly over Philip, apparently
seeing little and yet recording in his mind each detail, and they now
rested upon his shoes.
“I am sure you have had a trying time, Mr. Castle,” he said. “I
understand you are the dead man’s private secretary.”
“Yes.”
“And have been with him for some time?”
“Nearly eleven years.”
“Now, Mr. Castle, is there any one as far as you know to whom his
death at the present moment would be of advantage?”
“That’s not a very easy question to answer,” replied Castle with some
hesitation. “Sir Roger had few friends and he had made, in one way and
another, a great many enemies in the course of his life—but none, as
far as I know, who would be the least likely to resort to violence.
The answer must certainly be, no.”
“Did he go in fear of any one, for example?”
“Not in the least; he was afraid of nothing and nobody.”
“In fact you had no apprehensions for him of any sort?”
“None; I thought he would live to be a hundred.”
“That stick over there, that belonged to him, I understand?”
“Yes; he’d been walking with it the last day or two.”
“In the house, d’you mean?”
“Yes, he had had twinges of gout; he had it all last evening.”
“I was coming to that; perhaps you will be good enough to tell me in
your own words exactly what happened last night.”
“I came along the passage to go to bed——”
“One minute,” interposed Humblethorne quickly; “that’s the end; I
should like to know all that happened previous to that. Did you notice
anything unusual in Sir Roger’s manner, for instance, during the day?”
“No, I can’t say I did. He was, well, brusque and touchy about
trifles, but that was entirely usual, especially when he had gout. He
told me a couple of days ago he intended to have a grand clear up
yesterday, but there is no significance in that; it was an expression
he often used, and only meant an extra hard day’s work for me. He came
to his study as usual after breakfast and dictated a few business
letters for me to write, and also told me to have ready for him by the
evening a detailed _précis_ of a lot of new material he had had sent
him at various times, all relating to a branch he had thoughts of
opening in Liverpool. He was in his study all the morning. He was
reading in the garden with his foot up, I believe, all the afternoon,
at least that’s what he said at lunch he was going to do; I was busy
with the _précis_, so I don’t know for certain. He signed his letters
for the six o’clock post, and told me he had some more letters he
would dictate after dinner so that they could go out at nine o’clock
this morning. We all sat here while he smoked a cigar after dinner,
and he and I went to his study, as near as I can remember, just after
ten o’clock.”
“He sounds very busy for a man of his age, partially retired,”
remarked Humblethorne thoughtfully. “Was this an average day for him?”
“Not quite: he seldom worked after dinner, and usually went to bed
early. But I’ve known him do it when interested in any new
development, and on the whole it was a fairly ordinary day for a day
here.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“He used to go to Southampton two or three times a week. As a matter
of fact, he was busy just now, and even when he wasn’t he liked to
pretend that he was and make work. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly, please go on.”
“Well, we worked together for about an hour and a half; he read the
_précis_ and even commended it—that perhaps was the one unusual thing
of the evening. Then he dictated his letters to me and left me to go
to bed.”
“What time was that? Can you say at all precisely?”
“Yes, I think I can tell you exactly, for I glanced at the clock as he
left the room: by that it was thirteen minutes to twelve.”
“And then?”
“I debated whether I should write the letters then or get up early to
do them; he would require them to be ready for signature when he came
down to breakfast. I decided to finish them; there were a dozen or
more to write, and they took me over an hour to do. I was not through
till nearly half-past one; found I had run out of cigarettes and came
along to get one here before going to bed.”
“What time was that?”
“As nearly as I can fix it, about twenty-five minutes past one. I came
along the passage——”
“By the passage you mean that passage behind you now?” asked
Humblethorne, referring to the one leading between the dining-room and
billiard-room. “It is important to have that quite clear.”
Castle nodded wearily. “That’s the one,” he said. “My ordinary way
from my room up to bed would be up the back stairs, but, as I say, I
wanted to get a cigarette and so I came along that passage, feeling my
way. The lights had all been turned out—Sir Roger had a passion for
small economies—but it was a bright night with a bit of a moon and
there was a certain amount of light coming in from that small window
on the landing.” Castle paused and a look of vivid remembrance passed
across his face; he had been speaking quietly and evenly, but now his
voice rose, and it was obvious that he was painfully agitated. “I had
got almost to the stairs,” he went on, “before I noticed anything.
Then I trod on something, a cigarette, I think, and I looked down. I
saw something dark and round just in front of me at the foot of the
stairs. I couldn’t think what it could be. I bent over. God! shall I
ever forget that hideous, blood-stained face?” He ended with a
half-hysterical cry and sank down into a chair, white and shaking.
Humblethorne, upon whom the clearness and quietness of the earlier
part of his narrative had made, in spite of his first prejudice
against the secretary, a distinctly favourable impression, watched him
curiously for a moment and then said with sudden, deliberate
sharpness, “Yes, and what did you do then?”
“Then?” repeated Castle vaguely. “Then I staggered back and it was all
I could do to keep myself from screaming at the top of my voice.”
“It would probably have been the best thing you could have done, sir,”
remarked Birts.
“It was the last thing a gentleman should have done,” retorted Castle
angrily. “It would have terrified Lady Penterton and the ladies out of
their wits to have been roused to such a dreadful sight suddenly like
that.”
“Let us hear what you did do,” repeated Humblethorne, with a gentle
insistence which had its due effect.
“I fumbled about until I got my hand on the switch,” went on Castle
shakily, “and turned the light on. It wasn’t quite as bad as it had
been coming suddenly in that eerie light, but it doesn’t bear talking
about. I got down beside him somehow then, but I didn’t need to feel
his heart to see that he was dead all right.”
“How exactly was he lying? Go to the place, please, and describe it as
accurately as you can.”
“He was lying here,” said Castle, going with a very apparent distaste
for his task to the foot of the stairs, “just to the left of the
staircase, his head on the floor here below the bottom stair almost
touching the corner; he was on his right side; his knees were drawn up
and both arms flung out in front of him; his hands were open. It was a
natural attitude, except for his head, which was bent backwards in a
way that seemed to me particularly hideous.”
“Yes, that’s just how he was when I see him,” added Birts in a rather
aggrieved tone.
Humblethorne remained silent, watching Castle as closely as the spot
indicated. “Yes?” he said.
“That’s all,” replied Castle. “I don’t think there is anything else I
can add.”
“According to your account, then, there is an interval of an hour and
thirty-eight minutes from the time that Sir Roger left you to the time
you came along the passage.”
“Yes, just about; I cannot fix the exact minute I left my room.”
“Were you writing in your room or in Sir Roger’s?”
“In my room; I took my notebook back into it as usual when he had
finished dictating.”
“And during this time that you were writing you heard nothing?”
“Not a sound of any sort; but of course I was busy.”
“What did you do after turning the light on and satisfying yourself
Sir Roger was dead? By the way, what made you conclude at once that he
was dead?”
“The blood had already ceased flowing and his arm had begun to
stiffen; besides, there was no mistaking the look on his face. He must
have been killed very soon after leaving me.”
“Well; go on, please.”
“My first thought,” continued Castle with an angry glance at the
imperturbable figure of Humblethorne, “was of course that he had met
with an accident; fallen and killed himself, I mean.”
“Come, Mr. Castle,” broke in Birts, “that won’t do!”
“I know that as well as you do, Birts,” retorted Castle irritably.
“But I’m not accustomed, like you are, to meeting with such things as
part of my ordinary life. For an old man to fall and kill himself in
his hall without rousing the house is not impossible; the other seemed
to be. But I realized, when I pulled myself together, that there was
something more than accident about him. I tried the door; it was
locked. I went as quickly as I could round the windows, both here and
in all the adjoining rooms, making sure that I should find one forced,
but they were all fastened. Then I did not know what to do, so I went
and knocked up Fairlie. He was asleep of course, but I made him get up
and dress as quickly as he could and come into the hall. After that I
went and knocked at Miss Temple’s door, woke her up, told her and left
her to tell Lady Penterton and Miss Celia, and came down here again.”
“When did you send for Birts?” asked Humblethorne.
“Oh, I don’t know,” returned Castle wearily. “I was here trying to
think it out; it seemed so extraordinary. And then Fairlie suggested
that I should try and telephone to Birts and the doctor; but I could
get no answer whatever from the Exchange, though I tried ever so long.
So finally I scrawled a couple of notes and sent them off by Alfred on
a bicycle.”
“It was 4.20 a.m. by the station clock when Alfred reached me,” said
Birts.
“Yes, I must have spent half an hour or more trying to get through,
and I don’t suppose he hurried himself dressing and all that.”
“Mr. Castle,” said Humblethorne quietly, “on what terms were you
yourself with Sir Roger?”
“On what terms?” repeated Castle with a surprised stare. “What do you
mean? I was his private secretary.”
“Yes, I know that; I mean, were you on intimate terms or what?”
“Sir Roger was not on intimate terms with any one, so far as I know,”
answered Castle with some confusion. “Why do you ask?”
“It helps in a case of this kind to know everything,” replied
Humblethorne suavely.
“Well, then, yes, in a sense I was; that is to say, I’d been with him
a long time and probably knew him better than any one else.”
“That is a mere evasion of my question,” said Humblethorne softly.
“Well,” cried Castle, “if you mean, did I like him, no, emphatically
no! Did any one? Birts will tell you what sort of a man he was, if you
don’t know.”
“I didn’t mean that; I meant, did he like you?”
“This is too much!” exclaimed Castle. “I won’t be cross-examined in
this way. What are you driving at?”
“I may take it then,” said Humblethorne, quite unruffled, “that there
were differences between you.”
“You may take it how you like,” replied Castle with some heat.
“Differences, of course there were differences. If you think a man
could live for eleven years without differences with Sir Roger
Penterton, you’re mistaken.”
“I quite understand, Mr. Castle,” Humblethorne said in a more
conciliatory tone; “you mustn’t take offence at my questions; I am
bound to ask them, you know.”
“Questions, yes, but——”
“Just one more and I think I have finished,” interposed Humblethorne
gently. “Birts tells me you asked if the body couldn’t be moved.
That’s not a very usual request; d’you mind telling me why you made
it?”
“Certainly. I felt that it was too ghastly an object to leave lying at
the foot of the main staircase a moment longer than was necessary. I
hoped that the ladies would remain upstairs, as in fact they did, but
they might want to come down any time later, and I saw no reason after
Birts and the doctor had made their examinations why the risk should
be run. I couldn’t have done it, naturally, without Birts’s
permission; as he gave it, well, wring what significance you can out
of it.” After saying which, Castle looked straight at Humblethorne and
left the hall.
“Well!” said Birts, who did not at all like the trend of the
conversation. “I have known Mr. Castle for over ten years, but I’ve
certainly never known him speak like that.”
“You probably have never known him in quite these circumstances,”
remarked Humblethorne drily, ringing the bell.
“No more I have!” exclaimed Birts, as if embracing a quite new idea.
“Ah, Fairlie,” said Humblethorne, when the butler quietly appeared,
“there are one or two things I want to ask you. Just give me, if you
will, your version of what took place.”
“That is easily done,” replied Fairlie. “Sir Roger seemed quite as
usual last night, both at dinner and when I took him in the tray about
twenty minutes past ten.”
“Was he a heavy drinker?”
“Heavy but not excessive,” replied Fairlie solemnly. “I’ve not often
known him the worse for liquor, but he was fond of wine. Still he
wasn’t a drinker between meals, only now and again he would have a
whisky or two if he was going to sit up. He only wanted soda last
night, though, because he was threatened with his gout, I expect. He
was at work with Mr. Castle when I went in, and he did not ring or
require anything again. I locked up as usual, saw that everything was
all right and went to bed.”
“What time was that?”
“Well, let me see; I locked up and put the lights out about a quarter
to eleven, I should say. The ladies had all gone up then, and Sir
Roger used to go on at me for leaving lights burning when they weren’t
wanted, so even if he did happen to be working late I didn’t leave
them on. I waited up a little in case he should ring for anything, and
got to bed about twelve.”
“And you didn’t hear a sound between locking up and going to bed?”
Fairlie thought for a moment. “No, nothing,” he said. “I was doing the
silver and I shouldn’t have heard anything in the hall short of a
revolver going off.”
“You are positive the fastenings of the doors and windows were all
right?”
“They were when I went round. We have a good deal of silver and one
thing and another, and it is not a duty I could leave to any one
else.” He spoke with dignity and decision.
“And then what was the next thing you heard?”
“I went to bed and had dropped off to sleep when Mr. Castle burst into
my room—terribly agitated, he was, and it was some time before I could
understand just what had happened. It must have been about half-past
one he came to me.”
“Are you sure of the time?” asked Humblethorne slowly.
“I wouldn’t like to be positive; it may have been a bit sooner or a
bit later. I didn’t think to look at my watch until afterwards; I just
dressed as quickly as I could and came along.”
“And then?”
“I stayed in the hall with Sir Roger until Mr. Castle came back after
telling Miss Evelyn. He sat here a bit with his head on his hand
looking worn out; then he began to walk up and down, and I ventured to
remind him it would be as well to telephone for Dr. Shipstone, not
that he could do anything—and for you, Birts. But he couldn’t get
through, and at last I sent Alfred off.”
That really ended the story of the night.
In response to further questions, Fairlie identified the cigarette box
as the one which usually stood in the hall on a small table close to
the drawing-room door and corroborated Castle’s statement that the
stick was the one with which Sir Roger had been walking. The evidence
of the other servants threw no fresh light whatever upon the death;
they had all gone to bed at their ordinary times and had heard and
seen nothing unusual at all. Fairlie was able to substantiate the
simple statement of Alfred, the only other man in the house, by
stating that he had heard him snoring horribly when he himself went to
bed.
It was getting on for two o’clock by this time, and Humblethorne
expressed his intention of returning to the Rose and Crown for
luncheon. Fairlie assured him that Lady Penterton would wish him to be
offered the hospitality of the house; but Humblethorne declared that a
walk would do him good. He really wanted to be alone to arrange in his
mind the facts which had been presented to him. Birts accompanied him
in silence a little way down the drive.
“It’s beyond me,” said that worthy officer after they had gone a few
yards. “Man murdered in his own hall and not a single person know
anything about it.”
“We have not yet completed the preliminary inquiry,” responded
Humblethorne, “and may still find some one who does. But assuming,
what is most likely, that the remaining members of the household——”
“Why, there’s only her ladyship, Miss Celia, and Miss Temple left!”
exclaimed Birts in surprise.
“Exactly. If, as is most probable, they were in bed and also know
nothing about it, we arrive at the conclusion that nobody does. Well,
he couldn’t have dealt himself that wound on the forehead. So either
the assailant came from outside, in which case there’ll be some trace
on window or door and it’s up to us to find it—or he came from inside,
in which case we’ve listened to a good many lies this morning. There
is a third alternative,” Humblethorne added slowly, “and that is that
the murderer came from outside, but was let in: there might be no
trace then, but there would be somebody who knows a good deal more
than he has any idea of telling us. Well, it’s a nice little problem,
Birts. Don’t get talking to anybody, whatever you do, and keep a sharp
look out, especially in the hall, and don’t let a thing more be moved
till I come back. I shan’t be long.”
“Very good, sir,” answered Birts submissively.
“Damn that man!” said Humblethorne to himself as he walked on alone.
“There may have been nothing to see; there may have been a lot—either
seems equally probable. But what a mug!” Then apparently irrelevantly
he added, “Now I wonder what Mr. Castle possesses in the way of shoe
leather?”