New Lights
Humblethorne walked back to the Rose and Crown with a mind fully
occupied: the fields, among which he had been looking forward to
idling only to find that idleness of so rustic a character had no
attractions for him, existed no more than if he had been walking along
the streets of a town. He was absorbed in the problem he had stumbled
on, and almost entirely happy. He would have been completely so if he
had not retained, even in a profession most unfavourable to the growth
of sentiment, a certain fresh idealism: just because it was so
obviously impossible, he longed to be able to take people on trust. It
was to remind himself as much as to warn Birts, that he had dwelt on
the need for general suspicion in the first stages of every inquiry.
He would have liked to be able, on faith alone, to narrow down the
field of search. And he was never completely happy as a man, however
absorbed he might become as an official, when engaged upon a case of
treachery or twisted motives. Straightforward violence he understood;
it was regrettable and must be punished, but it did not offend him. He
envied Birts for his simple faith, especially as it seemed likely to
be so little justified.
There were, as he saw the case, two main avenues of inquiry; he had to
satisfy himself first whether or no any one had made an entrance
unassisted into the Towers, and, secondly—a subject that bore closely
on the first—how far the secretary was telling the truth. The
impression Castle had made upon him as a personality was distinctly
favourable; the facts Castle had related and admitted just the
reverse. The man was unmistakably a gentleman, Humblethorne decided,
by that much misused word meaning not merely a man of birth or wealth.
He was undoubtedly in a highly strung condition, and too much emphasis
should not be laid on his having asked that ass, Birts, for leave to
shift the body; but it was at least suggestive of a desire to hide
things. It had to be borne in mind that a great deal rested at present
on Castle’s word alone, that even on his own showing there was an hour
and a half during which Sir Roger had not been seen, and that there
had been an apparent forgetfulness, to say the least of it, in
communicating with the police. Humblethorne, putting aside his
personal impression of Castle, felt convinced that there was a skilful
mixture of truth and falsehood in the tale he had been told, a clever
juggling with the clock, a concealment of some vital fact. It would be
his business to sift that truth out: there was much yet to ascertain
before he felt justified in arriving at any conclusion. It was quite
possible, it was even, he thought, probable that he would find some
tangible piece of evidence of which there was at present so little,
which would throw light suddenly upon some part of the story where
falsehood was grafted on to truth. “Talk! talk!” he said to himself.
“Plenty of that, and deuced few facts. Well, we’ll find them, if
they’re there; and if they’re not, well, that will be a fact of the
highest importance in itself.”
He had forgotten the existence of Timmins, but Timmins had not
forgotten him. He had no sooner put his foot inside the inn than
Timmins met him and exclaimed, “Ah! there you are, sir! I ’ardly
expected to see you till the evening. But there ain’t much that’s hid
from you now, I’ll be bound.”
This was intended, as Humblethorne was well aware, as a question, but
he did not choose to gratify idle curiosity and he was very hungry; so
he only replied that he wanted some lunch and hoped that he would
receive a little more attention than he had been favoured with at
breakfast. Timmins was disappointed, even pained, and roared out
commands to bring the gentleman his lunch immediately; how much longer
was he to be kept waiting? His personal endeavours produced it in a
time that ordinary frequenters of the inn would have considered
astounding, and he waited himself upon so august a guest.
Humblethorne ate for some time in silence, and Timmins after trying in
vain to draw him out, even suggesting half a dozen people that he “’ad
’is suspicions of,” finally remarked with a sigh—
“I see ’ow it is; you ain’t got all your ideas in order yet to want to
talk. I only wanted to ’elp, as it might be. There’s a lot o’ sense in
that old saying about two ’eds sometimes. Many a time my old woman ’as
come to me and sed, ‘Joe!’ she sez——”
Humblethorne pushed his plate away. It was obvious that Timmins meant
to talk; he might as well be made to talk to some purpose. “Timmins,”
he said, “Sir Roger seems to have been a highly unpopular man.”
“Ah, you may well say that, sir,” responded Timmins heartily; no true
inhabitant of a village fails to enter with gusto into the demerits of
a neighbour. “There won’t be many as’ll break their ’earts over ’im.”
“Why was that? I mean, was there anything particular about him? It
seems to be more than general dislike.”
“Well, there was ’arf a dozen things the people ’ere had agin him; but
I reckon it was the way ’e treated ’is son that first let folks see
’is real character.”
“His son? I didn’t know he had one,” said Humblethorne.
“Yes, ’e has one. It ’appened long before I came ’ere, so it’s all
’earsay, as it were, but by all accounts ’is son was as different from
’im—well, as ’er ladyship is. That made for trouble, I dessay: ’e was
for being a hartist, I believe, and Sir Roger, ’e don’t ’old with
anything of that sort; but I don’t rightly know ’ow the actual quarrel
came about. The son, ’e married a girl whose people used to live in
the village, I’ve ’eard tell, and Sir Roger, ’e was that mad when ’e
come to ’ear of it, ’e turned ’im out of the ’ouse, at night it was
too, with awful words, and they say as ’ow ’e made ’er ladyship and
Miss Celia—she must ’ave been only a little girl then—give ’im their
solemn word they’d never mention ’is son’s name again. I believe ’e’d
’ave turned them out too if they ’adn’t. People as knew ’im, they say
’e was worse as ’e grew older. Anyways, there ain’t one who could have
lived with ’im as her ladyship’s done, not for all ’is money. The
things she’s ’ad to put up with don’t bear telling, they say; but
there, I don’t ’old with gossip myself, and I don’t suppose ’e was as
black as ’e’s painted.”
Humblethorne listened with much attention; anything which bore upon
the life of the house might have its significance, though he was too
well versed in the exaggerations of popular report to do more than
docket the main facts of the story in his mind.
“And this was a long time ago, you say?”
“It must be nigh on ten year, I should say,” replied Timmins, after
much thought. “Mrs. Martin was talking about it only this morning, and
I remember she said as ’ow her eldest was just turned two when it
happened, and ’e’s getting on for twelve now.”
“Well, I must be going out again,” said Humblethorne, rising. “You
have certainly given me a good deal of information.”
“Always glad to oblige,” replied Timmins with an air of superb
condescension.
Humblethorne walked slowly back to the Towers, turning over the story
in his mind; but it was ancient history, he reflected, and, however
interesting for the side-lights it threw upon Sir Roger’s character
and reputation, it seemed to have no bearing upon the facts before
him.
He was met at the door by Birts, who put on a look of importance
immediately and obviously had something fresh to tell him.
“Well, Birts,” he said, seeing that the other was anxious to be asked,
“you look as if you had found out something.”
“I have,” replied Birts with a pleased air. “I rather think it isn’t
going to be a real case, after all.”
“What have you found?”
“There was a window forced last night, after all,” answered Birts. “It
seemed as if there must be somewhere. It’s the small one in the
pantry: glass smashed and all.”
“Let me see it. Nothing been touched, I hope?”
“Not a thing; I give orders it wasn’t to be till you’d had a look.”
Humblethorne nodded; his mind was running rapidly over possibilities.
They went together to the pantry, which was empty, Birts leading the
way with the expression of a showman about to exhibit his treasures.
He pointed to a small window, about two feet high and one foot wide,
in the extreme right-hand corner of the wall opposite the door which
led into the dining-room. This was hinged like a door and had a catch
on one side; just below the centre and close to the handle a piece of
glass large enough to admit a man’s hand had been broken away. The
window was fastened and fragments of glass were lying on the sill and
on the floor: the sill itself had several long scratches on it at
right angles to the window. “There you are!” said Birts. “There’s the
whole thing! Some one after the silver, there’s not the smallest
doubt. It’s kept in the dining-room, most of it, in a safe in the
sideboard. Sir Roger hears some one in there as he goes to bed: fellow
had only just got in, I should think. Sir Roger comes in, and gets one
on the head; he drops and the man bolts in a funk. He could easily
shut that window after him. That’s what happened, sure as fate.”
“Something of the kind may have happened certainly,” replied
Humblethorne thoughtfully; “only it doesn’t explain why Sir Roger
dropped on the far side of the hall, or the extraordinary choice of a
weapon.”
“N—no,” answered Birts. “That is awkward. I don’t know,” he said,
brightening; “the fellow got as far as the hall; he saw that box, all
silver, mind you, and then Sir Roger came along. The hall was dark,”
continued Birts, warming to his work, “he stood still, hoping to
escape detection, and Sir Roger didn’t see him until he was almost
across. Then of course the fellow hurled the box just because he had
it in his hands.”
“It’s not impossible that you are right, Birts. It’s certainly the
simplest solution.” Humblethorne examined the window again carefully.
“Whoever came in here,” he said at last, “was no fool. He has taken
very good care not to put his hands on the paint, and it can’t have
been so easy to avoid.” He opened the window and leant out. “H’m, I
see,” he remarked, closing it again. “No fool, indeed. It is difficult
to follow footprints on a much-used gravel path.” He bent down and
scrutinized the floor with the utmost care, from the window to the
door and then across the dining-room and on into the hall. “Nothing to
help us,” he said at last. “You may be right, Birts; I won’t say
you’re not, but I should like a little more evidence before I say you
are. Any strangers noticed hanging about?”
“So far as I’ve heard,” replied Birts, “no one has been hanging round
the place, and no one was seen last night; I’ll make inquiries, but of
course it’s a big place, and it would be easy enough for any one to
get into the park without being noticed.”
“Yes,” answered Humblethorne, “but they would have to know the habits
and ways of the house when they got here. Just think, Birts, supposing
your theory’s the right one, of the risks the fellow ran. Why come
then, about midnight according to Mr. Castle, anyway before half-past
one? The chances of running into some one were enormous. Think of it,
through the pantry and the dining-room into the hall, of all places.
It won’t do—not like that. Some one may have come there, but, if any
one did, it wasn’t just a fellow after the silver.”
At that moment he heard some one come into the dining-room, the door
of which he had left open. Looking in, he found Fairlie putting away
the silver which had come down from the luncheon-trays.
“Fairlie,” he said, “I thought you told me particularly that every
window and door was fastened all right last night?”
“And so they were when I went round,” repeated Fairlie, decidedly.
“But, as I told Birts, I only saw to the doors and the windows of the
living-rooms down here, all except the study and Mr. Castle’s room,
that is, of course; it wasn’t my place to see to them, when they were
used after dinner. I shut that window in the pantry myself when I
finished in there about nine o’clock; so I didn’t look at it again.”
“When did you find it broken?” Humblethorne asked, turning to Birts.
“Fairlie came and told me about it, let me see, about half an hour
after you’d gone,” replied Birts.
“How was it no one discovered it before?”
“On an ordinary morning,” Fairlie replied, “of course either Alfred or
myself would have been bound to see it first thing in the morning; but
everything has been at sixes and sevens all day. The maids don’t go in
there. Alfred, he’d been up and out on his bicycle, and I let him off
when he came back, and I didn’t have a minute to myself. I did go into
the pantry, but just hastily and out again, and didn’t think to look
at the window in the corner. It wasn’t till I’d had my dinner that I
came in and saw it. And then of course I called Birts’s attention to
it immediately. I wish I had seen it last night,” added the old man:
“then we would have had some chance before the fellow had gone far.”
“Some one may have got in when the servants were all at supper,”
remarked Birts hopefully to Humblethorne when they were alone again in
the hall, “and hid himself till he thought the house was quiet. He
wouldn’t know Sir Roger and Mr. Castle were working late in the
study.”
“He knew a good deal if he could dare to come in and hide himself in a
place like this, full of people,” was all Humblethorne answered. “Now
I’m going to take a look round.”
He went along the passage intending to begin his survey of the ground
floor in the study in which Sir Roger had last been seen alive, whilst
Birts went out to interrogate the gardeners and look for traces of the
man who, he was convinced, had come to burgle and been led on into
murder.
Philip Castle was lying down in his bedroom, and Humblethorne found
the time opportune for a thorough examination of both studies, but was
unable by any discovery to shake the story he had been told. The
_précis_ lay on Sir Roger’s desk, with pencil notes scrawled here and
there in another hand; a dozen letters, all dealing with various
business matters and bearing the previous day’s date, lay beside it
awaiting the signature they could never now receive. As he had
provided himself with the dead man’s keys, he was able to make an
exhaustive search in all the drawers, but he found nothing but
documents and papers, none of which helped him to build any theory
whatever. “I am wasting my time here,” he said to himself at last with
conviction: “if there was anything, there isn’t now. I’ll be better
employed elsewhere.”
He stepped out into the passage and, seeing the little door into the
garden standing open to the warm air, turned that way. A minute
examination of the lock satisfied him it had not been tampered with,
and he passed outside on to a pleasant stone-flagged loggia which ran
along the west side of the house between the two projecting wings
formed by the drawing-room on the south and the study on the north.
Several cane garden-chairs were ranged irregularly along the wall, and
in one of these an old lady was sitting. There was a dignity about her
which not even the evidences of physical weakness and mental suffering
could destroy, an attraction in the delicate yet firm lines of her
face which made it apparent that in youth she must have been really
beautiful; but, even apart from the ravages which tragedy and
sleeplessness had just impressed upon it, it was a sad face, worn with
many lines. She sat motionless, white and almost haggard, gazing
without purpose across the brilliant day.
Humblethorne coughed apologetically, and she turned her head sharply
with a nervous movement of her hands.
“I beg your pardon, my lady,” said Humblethorne gently. “I had no wish
to intrude. I am the inspector in charge of the case.”
She gazed at him for some moments without speaking; her thoughts
seemed to be far away and to be recalled with an effort. “Yes?” she
said at last vaguely. “What is it you want?”
“If your ladyship will excuse me,” said Humblethorne, anxious to make
the most of the opportunity which had presented itself, “I should be
glad if I might ask one or two questions.”
She seemed to be utterly weary and hardly to hear. “Ask me what you
wish,” she said listlessly.
“Thank you, my lady. I only wanted to know whether you noticed
anything unusual about your husband during the evening. Did he seem
quite himself at dinner, for instance?”
“Quite.”
“Not anxious, by any chance?”
“My husband was never anxious.”
“I see. And then after dinner he went to his study: was that usual?”
“Not usual, but work sometimes made it necessary.”
“And you went upstairs, I suppose?”
“I read for a while in my boudoir; I did not go straight to bed.”
“Can you tell me at all what time you went to bed, my lady?”
“What time? I don’t know exactly. I did not notice the time. My maid
could tell you—oh no, how I am forgetting! I had lent her to Miss
Penterton that evening as my daughter had gone up early with a
headache and I was anxious about her. She is not strong, you know.”
The old lady sighed heavily, tremulously; tears seemed not far away.
“So I have been told,” answered Humblethorne with sympathy. He waited
a moment and then asked: “You have said your husband was never
anxious; had he never any apprehensions? I mean, had he any enemies
that you know of?”
She shook her head slowly. “No,” she answered hesitatingly; then she
added in a low, half-broken voice, as if wrestling with a truth it was
useless to conceal, “I’m afraid it is not quite true to say he had no
enemies: every very successful man has, and perhaps in rising he made
them. But you understand.”
“Yes, my lady,” he assented; her pathetic loyalty touched him. He
wished to go and leave her to her sorrow, but one thing remained in
his mind on which she could perhaps tell him more than any one, and
with a strong reluctance he said gently, “In a case of this sort, my
lady, it helps to know everything or I wouldn’t mention it. I
understood he had differences with his son.”
Colour sprang into her white cheeks, and she clutched the arms of the
chair; her listless air vanished. “What has that to do with this?” she
asked with a sudden fire of which she had seemed incapable. “He had;
every one knows that. My son is coming: I have had him sent for. Ask
him if you want to know the wretched story. Go!” she added
imperiously, “unless you have anything to ask I alone can answer. I am
not strong enough for the questions of idle curiosity. Every
assistance will be given you.”
She sank back in her chair, exhausted and trembling; and Humblethorne,
with a slight flush of self-reproach, moved away and left her.
Meanwhile during Humblethorne’s fruitless investigation of the two
studies, Evelyn came down the main stairs to dissolve her uneasiness
and drive away the headache which was threatening her by a little
fresh air. As she reached the landing and turned down the flight of
stairs towards the hall she saw the sheet carefully covering the
evidences of the crime, and hesitated. She had not been told the exact
position in the hall where the body had been found and had not
realized she would have to pass so close to it. She half turned to
retreat and go by the back stairs, but the silence encouraged her and
curiosity drove her on. Skirting the sheet carefully, she gained the
hall. No one was about; she saw the body was not there and, stooping
with a sudden impulse, she lifted the sheet and looked down. She noted
with repulsion but also with interest, as her gaze grew more intent,
the main bloodstains on the marble and edge of carpet and those both
on the edge of the bottom stair and on the second and fourth steps.
They became photographed in her mind as any unusual sight will impress
itself on a vivid brain. She then looked with kindling imagination at
the cigarette box and confusion of cigarettes: “if the box was thrown
at him—and one could hardly hold it to strike with—it is funny it
didn’t drop further away and the cigarettes fly all over the place,”
she thought.
Forgetting in the interest of the amateur such scientific details as
the possibility of finger-marks, she bent down and gingerly lifted the
box, taking care not to soil her fingers by touching the bloodstains
on it. She noticed the dent on the corner and saw, rather to her
surprise, that there was no blood there. As she bent down with a
little exclamation of disgust to replace the box in the exact position
in which she had found it, she paused suddenly, turned the box
carefully over and saw that the bottom had from its edge to its centre
an irregular, blot-like stain, corresponding to that on the carpet as
now shown by the lifting of the box. The box was heavy, and the
impression of its shape was clearly visible on the soft carpet. “I
don’t quite understand this,” she said to herself, putting the box
back with great care. “If the box was there when the blood trickled
down to it, I should have thought it would have more or less dammed
the trickle. It must have been moved, I suppose; I wonder why.”
She replaced the sheet and stood there, puzzling over the little
problem she believed she had discovered.
“Now that box belongs on this table,” she said, going slowly to the
small table which stood against the wall close to the drawing-room
door, “and it was there last night after dinner, because I saw it. I
shall begin my investigations in the drawing-room.” With a sense of
slight amusement at the way she was following out a momentary impulse
she opened the door and went in.