"WILL you come to some place where we can have a talk?"
"Yes. Where shall we go?"
Her eyes met his frankly, as she replied, and Marsland as he looked
at her was impressed with her beauty and the self-possession of her
manner. She was young, younger than he had thought on the night of the
storm--not more than twenty-two or twenty-three at the most--and as she
stood there, with the bright autumn sunshine revealing the fresh beauty
of her face and the slim grace of her figure, she made a striking
picture of dainty English girlhood, to whom the sordid and tragic sides
of life ought to be a sealed book. But Marsland's mind, as he glanced
at her, travelled back to his first meeting with her in the lonely
farm-house where they had found the body of the murdered man on the
night of the storm.
He led her to one of the numerous tea-rooms on the front, choosing one
which was nearly empty, his object being to have a quiet talk with her.
Since the eventful night on which he had walked home with her after
they had discovered the dead body of the owner of Cliff Farm, several
important points had arisen on which he desired to enlighten her, and
others on which he desired to be enlightened by her.
"I thought of writing to you," he said after he had found seats for
his companion and himself in a quiet corner of the large tea-room and
had given an order to the waitress. "But I came to the conclusion that
it was unwise--that you might not like it."
He found it difficult to strike a satisfactory balance in his attitude
to her. On the one hand, it was impossible to be distant and formal in
view of the fact that they were united in keeping from the police the
secret of her presence at Cliff Farm on the night of the murder; on the
other hand, he did not wish to adopt a tone of friendly familiarity
based on his knowledge that she had something to hide. When he studied
her from the young man's point of view as merely an attractive member
of the opposite sex he felt that she was a charming girl whose
affection any one might be proud to win, but his security against her
charms was the feeling of distrust that any one so good-looking should
have anything to hide. He had no sentimental illusion that she would
confide her secret to him.
She waited for him to continue the conversation, and pretended to be
engaged in glancing round the room, but from time to time she gave him
a quick glance from beneath her long lashes.
"What I wanted to tell you most of all is that, when I went back to
Cliff Farm the next day, the detective from Scotland Yard found a comb
on the floor of the sitting-room downstairs where we sat after you let
me in."
"A comb!" she cried. "What sort of a comb?"
"A tortoise-shell comb about three inches long, with a gold mounting."
"That is strange," she said. "It was found on the floor?"
"Close to the chair where you stood."
"Do they know whom it belongs to?"
"No, fortunately. But they are very anxious to find out. Naturally they
think it points to the conclusion that there is a woman in the case."
"Of course they would think that," she said.
"Do you think any one in Ashlingsea could identify it as yours?" he
asked. "Have you had it any length of time?"
"It was not mine," she declared. "I did not lose a comb."
"Not yours?" he exclaimed in astonishment.
"I am trying to think to whom it belonged," she said meditatively. "As
far as I know, lady visitors at Cliff Farm were few. And yet it could
not be Mrs. Bond--the woman who went there to tidy up the place once a
week--you say it was gold mounted?"
"Rather an expensive looking comb, I thought," said the young man.
"Yes; it looks as if there was a woman in the case."
The arrival of the waitress with the tea-things brought about a lengthy
pause in the conversation.
To Marsland it looked as if there must be two women in the case if
the comb did not belong to Miss Maynard. But he was not altogether
satisfied with her statement that it was not hers. It is difficult for
a young man of impressionable age to regard a good-looking girl as
untruthful, but Marsland recalled other things which indicated that she
was not averse to seeking refuge in false statements. He remembered
her greeting when he had knocked at the farm-house on the night of the
storm. "Where have you been?" was the question she put to him, and then
she had added, "I have been wondering what could have happened to you."
They were not questions which might reasonably be directed to a chance
visitor on such a night, and he remembered that there had been a note
of impatience in her voice. This impatience harmonized with the start
of surprise which she gave when he spoke to her. Obviously she had
been expecting some one and had mistaken his knock for the arrival of
the man for whom she had been waiting. And yet her subsequent story to
Marsland in explanation of her presence at the farm was that she had
been overtaken by the storm and had sought shelter there. She had made
no reference to the man whom she had expected to see when she opened
the door in response to Marsland's knock. When directly questioned on
the matter she had declared that it was Frank Lumsden she had expected
to see.
"Whom do the police suspect?" she asked, after the waitress had
departed.
"I do not think they suspect any one in particular just yet," he
replied.
"Have they no clue of any kind?"
"They have several clues of a kind. They have discovered some
footprints outside the window of the room in which we sat. The window
itself has been forced. And that reminds me of something else I wanted
to tell you. The police have naturally questioned me in order to obtain
any light I can throw on the mystery. One of the first things they
asked me was how I got into the house. I told them that the door was
open, and that as no one came when I knocked I walked in and sat down.
I think that was what you told me you did."
"Yes," she replied. "The door was open."
"You see, I forgot to fortify myself with a ready made story which
would fit all these questions. The theory of the police at present is
that the murderer was in the house all the time we were there."
"Oh!" she exclaimed. It was obvious that she was deeply interested in
that theory. "Because of the crash we heard?"
"Partly because of that, and partly because that strange looking
document we found on the stairs has disappeared. It was gone when
I went back to the house with the police sergeant. Their theory is
that the murderer was in the house when I arrived--that is, when you
arrived--but of course they didn't know about your being there. As they
reconstruct the tragedy, the murderer was making his way downstairs
with the plan in his hand just as I--meaning you--arrived at the door.
In his alarm he dropped the plan and retreated upstairs. The crash we
heard was made by him knocking down a picture that hung on the wall
near the top of the staircase--that is on the second floor. After we
left the house he came down, found the plan in the sitting-room and
made off with it."
"To think of his being in the house all the time I was there alone!"
she said. "It makes me shudder even now."
"The police are under the impression that they will not have much
difficulty in getting hold of him, but on the other hand Mr. Crewe
thinks there are some puzzling mysterious features which the police
have overlooked."
"Mr. Crewe!" she exclaimed. "Do you mean the famous London detective?"
"Yes."
"How does he come into it?"
"My uncle, Sir George Granville, is responsible for that. Perhaps you
know him?"
"I know him by sight," she said.
"I have been staying with him," continued the young man. "And when
I rang him up from the police station at Ashlingsea, after leaving
you, he was greatly excited about my discovery. He knows Crewe very
well--they used to be interested in chess, and that brought them
together. Crewe had come down to Staveley for the week-end as my
uncle's guest, and they were sitting up for me when I telephoned from
Ashlingsea."
"Was that Mr. Crewe who was with you this morning?" she asked.
"Yes. Rather a fine looking man, don't you think?"
She had other things to think of than the appeal of Mr. Crewe's
appearance to her feminine judgment.
"What did he want at Grange's shop?" she asked.
It occurred to him that he would like to ask that question concerning
her own visit there. What he said was:
"He wanted to make some inquiries there."
"Inquiries?" She looked at him steadily, but as he did not offer
further information she had to put her anxiety into words. "About this
comb?"
"As a matter of fact, I am not fully in his confidence," said Marsland
with a constrained smile. "Crewe is a man who keeps his own counsel. He
has to, in his line of business."
She was not quite sure that a rebuke was contained in this reply, but
she gave herself the benefit of the doubt.
"Does Mr. Crewe know that I was at Cliff Farm that night?" she asked.
"No. I thought I made my promise on that point quite definite."
"You did," was her candid reply to his undoubted rebuke. "But I will
release you from that promise if you think you ought to tell him."
"I am under no obligation to tell him anything more than I have told
the police."
"I thought that perhaps the fact that your uncle has brought Mr. Crewe
into the case might make a difference."
As he made no reply to that suggestion she branched off to something
else that was in her mind:
"Do you think Mr. Crewe is as clever as people say he is?"
"There is no doubt that he is a very remarkable man. I have already had
proof of his wonderfully quick observation."
"Then I suppose there is no doubt that he will find out who killed
Frank Lumsden?"
He looked at her steadily as he replied:
"His appearance in the case lessens the guilty person's chance of
escape. But Mr. Crewe does not claim to solve every mystery which is
presented to him."
"Do you think he will solve this one?" she asked.
He knew that she had a secret reason for hoping that some aspect of it
would prove insoluble, but this knowledge did not influence his reply.
"It may baffle him," he replied meditatively. "But I have been so
deeply impressed with the keenness of his observations and his methods
of deduction that I feel sure he will get very near to the truth."