Until lunch-time next day I remained in Oakham, not knowing what to do,
uncertain what steps to take.
I am a bachelor with a comfortable income, and, I am ashamed to say, an
idler. Work never did really appeal to me. I try to compensate for not
working by paying my taxes regularly and being as charitable as I can to
people I come across and like, and whom the world seems to treat
unjustly.
My father, Richard Ashton, was Colonel in the Blues. I was his only
child, for my mother died in bringing me into the world to live at ease
and waste my time. When my father died I found myself heir to a small
property in Rutland, which I promptly let, and One Hundred and Eighty
Thousand pounds safely invested--mostly in Consols. Sport in general,
especially hunting and shooting, also reading, constitute my favourite
forms of recreation. Generally I live in London, where I have a flat in
King Street, St. James's.
I don't remember what made me do it, but while lunching at the _Stag's
Head_ I decided that I would take the car out to Houghton Park again. I
think I was curious to see if any fresh development had taken place
there.
Nobody answered my repeated rings at the front door, so I went round to
the back. The door was locked. I rang, and rang again, and knocked.
But nobody came.
I walked right round the house. Every window was shut, and apparently
fastened. The whole place was as still as death. Then I went to the
stables. I could hear the occasional rattle of a headstall chain, but
the horses were all locked in.
Having lit a cigar and told my driver to await my return, I sauntered
aimlessly up into the woods--Houghton Park is one of the most
beautifully wooded estates in Rutland, with a lake seven acres in extent
hidden away in a delightfully picturesque spot surrounded by pine-grown
hills. Several times during the past fortnight I had rambled up into
these woods accompanied by Vera, and the association brought her back
into my thoughts with renewed vividness. Where was she at that moment?
What was she doing? Was she happy? Had any evil befallen her? When
should I hear of her again? When should I see her?
These, and many other reflections, came crowding in confusion into my
brain. What could be the meaning of this extraordinary mystery, so
suddenly created, so unexpected? I had known Sir Charles and Lady
Thorold many years, in fact since I was a child. For years they had
lived in London--in Belgravia. Then, two years previously, they had
rented Houghton Park and come to live there. The "County people" of
Rutland are perhaps as conservative as any in England, and, knowing
little about Sir Charles and Lady Thorold, who had received their title
through political influence before settling in that county, they had not
made haste to call.
As soon, however, as it had become known that the new arrivals were
extremely rich, also that Sir Charles meant to entertain largely, and
was going to hunt, and that the Houghton covers were to be well
preserved, the barriers of exclusiveness upon which the old families so
pride themselves, had been quickly swept away.
Somewhat out of breath after my slow climb up through the woods, I
rested at the top of the hill, from which a glorious view could be
obtained of the picturesque landscape of early spring, that unfolded
itself as far as sight could reach, a perfect panorama of our beautiful
English scenery that Americans so much admire, probably because it
affords so striking a contrast to their never-ending prairies and
gigantic mountains. Upon the opposite side of the hill on which I
stood, deep down in a ravine thick with brambles and undergrowth, the
face of the placid lake glistened like a mirror between the budding
trees, sparkling here and there with a blinding brightness where the sun
shone straight upon it.
A pheasant springing into the air within a yard of me made me jump, and
brought my wandering thoughts quickly back to earth. Why had I rambled
up here? I could not say. I had walked and climbed in a kind of dream,
so deeply was my mind engrossed with thoughts of what had happened and
with conjectures as to the future. And now, unconsciously, my attention
gradually became centred upon the lake, or rather upon a
curious-looking, dark object among the weeds upon its surface, within a
stone's throw of the bank.
I glanced at my watch. It was barely three o'clock. I had nothing at
all to do, so decided to make my way down through the undergrowth and
find out what this strange object might be.
Yes, I had not been mistaken. The first impression I had formed had
been the right one, though I had tried to persuade myself it could not
be. I was standing on the bank now, not ten yards from the object, and
I could see distinctly what it was. A human body, fully clothed, lay
there motionless--a man's body, face downward, the head almost
submerged.
My first thought was to plunge in and swim out to it and try to rescue
the drowning man. But an instant's reflection caused me to refrain.
The man, whoever he was, must be dead. He had been there a long time,
or the head would not have sunk, nor, indeed, would the body have
floated.
I made my way as quickly as I could along the footpath on the bank until
I reached the boathouse, a hundred yards away. It was locked. With a
big stone I shattered the padlock, and in a minute I was rowing towards
the body.
With some difficulty I succeeded in hitching the painter round the feet.
Having at last done so, I rowed back to the bank, towing the drowned
man.
And there I turned the body over. It must have been in the water many
hours, probably all night, I saw at once. And directly I saw the face I
recognised it, drawn and disfigured though it was.
The drowned man was Thorold's butler, James.
What had happened? Had he fallen into the lake while under the
influence of drink? Had he committed suicide? Or had he--
Somehow this last reflection startled me. Was it possible there had
been foul play?
I had to leave the body there, for I found it impossible to lift it on
to the bank without help.
"The great house," as the tenantry called it, was still locked when I
got back there. Silence still reigned everywhere. The driver of my
taxi was fast asleep on his seat.
When I prodded him with my stick he sat up with a start, and apologised.
"Get back to Oakham as quickly as you can," I said to him as I stepped
into the car and slammed the door.
He turned his starting handle without result. He lifted the bonnet, and
for a long time examined the machinery. Then, removing his coat, he
wormed himself underneath the car, lying flat upon his back.
When at last he emerged he was red in the face and perspiring freely.
"Oh, by the way, sir," he said suddenly, picking up his coat and
thrusting his hand into one of its pockets, "I think you dropped this."
As he stopped speaking he pulled his hand out and held out to me a
little silver flask about four inches square.