IT was not Elsie Maynard's first visit to London, but her visits had
been so few that London had presented itself to her as a vast labyrinth
of streets, shops and houses. The prevailing impression of all previous
visits was that, since it was a simple matter to get lost involuntarily
in the labyrinth, it would be a simple matter for any one to disappear
voluntarily and remain hidden from search. But on this occasion, when
there was need for secrecy as to her visit and its object, she fancied
the vast city to be full of prying eyes.
It seemed improbable that among the thousands of people she met in
the streets there would not be some one who knew her. There might be
some one watching her--some one who had received a telephone message
regarding her journey by train from Ashlingsea. To disappear from some
one who was watching her seemed to be impossible, for among the throng
of people it was impossible to single out the watcher.
From Victoria Station she took a tube ticket to Earl's Court, so as
to give the impression to any one who was following her that her
destination was in the west of London. She inspected closely all the
people who followed her into the carriage. She alighted at South
Kensington and changed to the Piccadilly tube. She got out at Holborn
and then took a bus to Aldgate. She walked along to the junction of
Whitechapel Road and Commercial Road, where she took a tram. After a
short journey by tram along Commercial Road she got out and walked
along the south side of the street, keeping a look out for the names of
the side streets.
When she reached Quilter Street she turned down it, and eventually
stopped at the door of No. 23. It was a short street with a monotonous
row of houses on each side. At one side of the corner where it joined
Commercial Road was a steam laundry, and at the other side a grocer's
which was also a post office. The faded wrappings of the tinned goods
which had been displayed for many months in the windows were indicative
of the comparative poverty of the locality. In the ground-floor windows
of most of the houses were cardboard notices showing that tailoring was
the craft by which the inhabitants earned their bread. It was here that
a great deal of the work sent out by tailors' shops in the City was
done, and the placards in the windows proclaimed a desire for work from
chance customers whose clothes needed repairs and pressing.
There were dirty ragged children playing in the gutters, and dirty
slatternly women, with black shawls over their heads and shoulders
and jugs in their hands, were to be seen hurrying along the pavement
for milk and beer. Although Miss Maynard had taken care not to dress
herself elaborately for her journey to London, she was aware that her
appearance before the door of No. 23 was attracting some attention
among the women standing at their doors and gossiping across area
railings. When the door was opened by a girl in her early teens who
had her sleeves rolled up and was wearing a piece of sacking as an
apron, Miss Maynard entered hurriedly and closed the door after her.
"Does Mr. Miller live here?" she asked.
"Yes," replied the girl.
"Is he in now?"
"Yes, he told me he was expecting a lady to call. Are you her?"
"Yes."
"First floor--front," said the girl, jerking a dirty thumb in the
direction of the stairs as an indication to her visitor that she could
find her way up unaided.
But before she had reached the top of the stairs the door of the front
room on the first floor was opened, and the man she had come to see
appeared on the stairs to welcome her. He clasped her hands eagerly
and led her to his room, closing the door carefully behind him. For
a moment he hesitated and then placed his arms around her. Her head
fell back on his shoulder and he pressed his lips to hers in a long
lingering kiss.
Arnold Brett was a young man of spare build whose military training
had taught him to keep his shoulders well back. He had a slight black
moustache, and his hair, which was carefully brushed down on his head,
was raven black in colour. His aquiline nose seemed to emphasize the
sharpness of his features; the glance from his dark eyes was restless
and crafty.
"Darling, I knew you would come," he said. He released her, but only
for the purpose of taking her again in his arms and kissing her.
"But why are you here?" she asked, giving a glance at the impoverished
furniture--the narrow bed with its faded counterpane, the cheap chest
of drawers, the dressing-table with a cracked mirror, the dirty window
curtains and the single wooden chair.
"Before God, I swear I had nothing to do with it, Elsie," he exclaimed
passionately.
It was a relief to hear him declare his innocence. Even if he had
spoken without emphasis she would not have doubted his word. It was
because her belief in his innocence deepened the mystery of his reason
for hiding that she repeated:
"But why are you here?"
"Do you believe me?" he asked. Between lovers faith counts for much
more than reason.
"Of course I do."
"I knew you would," he said. "It is because I know you were true that I
asked you to come. I am beginning to think that perhaps I made a great
mistake in running away. But I was unnerved by the accident. I was
thrown out of the car and I must have been unconscious in the road for
more than an hour. And, recalling how poor Frank had met his death, it
seemed to me that there was a diabolical scheme on foot to murder me as
well. Perhaps I was wrong. Tell me everything. Do the police suspect
me? Have they a warrant out for me? Did you go to the farm that night?
I have sent out for a newspaper each day, but the London newspapers
have said very little about the murder. All I have seen is a couple of
small paragraphs."
She was more immediately concerned in the discovery that he had
been thrown out of a motor-car and injured than in his thirst for
information about the murder at Cliff Farm. She was solicitous as to
the extent of the injury he had suffered, the length of time he had
been unconscious, and his movements after he came to his senses on
the lonely road. Not only were her feminine sympathies stirred by the
thought of the sufferings of the man she loved, but by the fear that
the accident must have affected his mind temporarily and prompted him
to hide himself.
He was too impatient for her news to spare time for more than a vague
disconnected account of the accident. He assured her that he was all
right again, except for a cut on the head which he showed her. It was
on her news more than on anything else that the question of his return
to Staveley depended.
She told him in response to his questions that the murder had created a
sensation. Every one was talking about it. The _Staveley Courier_ had
published a two column account of the tragedy with details about the
victim and the eccentricities of his grandfather in later years. Stress
was laid, in the newspaper account of the story, on the rumour that old
Joseph Lumsden had buried his money after the war broke out, and on the
disappointment of the legatees whose legacies could not be paid at his
death because the money could not be found. The police, it was stated,
had questioned these legatees as to their movements on the night of the
murder. The theory of the police seemed to be that the murder had been
committed by some one who had heard about the buried money and believed
it was hidden in the house, or thought the victim had known where it
was hidden.
She told him that Scotland Yard had sent down a detective to
investigate the crime, and that Mr. Crewe, the famous private
detective, was also working on it.
"Crewe!" he exclaimed in dismay. "Who has brought him into it?"
"He happened to be staying at Staveley with Sir George Granville on
the night of the murder, and when Mr. Marsland rang up his uncle, Sir
George Granville, from the Ashlingsea police station to say he was all
right, and to tell Sir George about the murder, Mr. Crewe was naturally
interested in it. He took up the case on his own initiative because his
host's nephew discovered the body."
"I can't follow you," he said. "Who is Mr. Marsland?" He started back
with a look of terror in his eyes. "My God, you don't mean Captain
Marsland? That is who it is; that is who it is! I knew I was right."
"Arnold, what is the matter?" she exclaimed, rising to her feet and
putting a hand on his shoulder. "You look dreadful."
"Captain Marsland," he muttered. "Captain Marsland come to life
again." He raised his clenched hand and shook it slowly as if to give
impressive emphasis to his words. "That is the man who shot poor Frank.
I knew I was right."
"Impossible."
He turned on her fiercely.
"Impossible," he echoed. "Who are you to say it is impossible? What do
you know about it or about him? Perhaps you are in love with him?"
"Don't be foolish, Arnold," she said sternly. "The Mr. Marsland I am
speaking of is not a captain--at least, he does not wear uniform,
and I have not heard any one call him 'captain.' At any rate, it is
impossible for him to have killed Frank Lumsden. I was at the farm
before he was, and poor Frank's dead body was upstairs all the time I
was there, though I did not know it."
"All the time you were there? When did you get there?"
"About six o'clock--just as the storm came on."
"Six o'clock? And was there no one at the house when you got there?"
"No one."
"You saw no trace of anyone having been there?"
"No. I found the key of the door in the lock and naturally I thought
that Frank had left it there--that you and he were inside. You remember
that you told me to be there about six o'clock, and that you and Frank
would be there before then."
"Yes. That was the arrangement, but--well, never mind that, Elsie, now;
tell me your story."
"I opened the door and walked in," she said. "I called out 'Is there
anybody in?' but I got no answer. I thought then that you and Frank
were in one of the sheds, and I sat down in the sitting-room, expecting
you would be back in a moment. I took the key out of the door so as to
make you knock in order to get in. The rain was just commencing then,
but it had been blowing hard for half an hour. About ten minutes after
I had been in the sitting-room there was a knock at the front door.
Naturally I thought it was you. I rushed to open it and as I flung it
back I asked what had kept you so long. But the man on the door step
was a stranger--this Mr. Marsland."
"What is he like?" asked Brett quickly.
"He is rather good-looking; fair-haired and fair-skinned and
blue-eyed--the Saxon type. He is about medium height--not quite so tall
as you."
"How old is he?"
"Quite young--about 26 or 27, I should say."
"Does he wear glasses--gold-rimmed eye-glasses?"
"He was not wearing them then, but he does wear them as a rule. I think
he told me subsequently that he had lost a pair while he was riding
along--blown off by the wind."
"What explanation did he give of his visit?"
"He had been riding across the downs from Staveley and had lost his way
in the storm. His horse was lame and when he saw the house he decided
to seek shelter."
"Did you believe him?"
"Of course I did--then."
"Do you believe him now?"
"I don't know, Arnold, after what you have said. He may have been there
before I was--it may have been he who left the key in the door."
"I am sure of it."
"He came in and sat down--he certainly acted as if he had never
been in the house before. I do not know how long we were in the
sitting-room--perhaps twenty minutes. We did not talk very much. I was
busy trying to think what had become of you and Frank. I thought it
best to tell him as little as possible, so I made up a story that I
had found the door open and had walked in with the intention of taking
shelter until the storm was over. I said nothing about the key. I began
to get a little nervous as we sat there listening to the storm. I was
upset about you."
"Go on," he said impatiently, as she paused.
"Presently we heard a crash upstairs--it was like breaking glass or
china. Mr. Marsland said he would go upstairs and see what it was. I
determined to go with him, as I was too frightened by that time to
stay alone. On one of the stairs he picked up Grandfather Lumsden's
cryptogram. I felt then that Frank had been there, and that something
dreadful had happened. We went upstairs, and there we found Frank's
dead body in the arm-chair. I thought at first that he had been taken
ill after you and he got there that afternoon, and that he had died
alone while you were away trying to get a doctor. But Mr. Marsland said
he had been shot. Poor Frank! What a dreadful end."
"What time did you leave?"
"We left almost at once. That would be about a quarter to seven. He
went to Ashlingsea police station to report the discovery of the body.
I asked him not to drag me into it--not to tell the police that I had
been at the farm. I thought that was the best thing to do until I saw
you--until I found where you had been."
"Quite right, Elsie--everything you do is right, my dear girl. And
while you and this Marsland were at the farm I was just recovering
consciousness on the Staveley road after a bad smash. It was after five
o'clock before I left Staveley; I had told Frank I would leave about
three o'clock, but I was delayed by several things. He told me he would
come along the road to meet me. I was driving along the road fairly
fast in order to reach the farm before the storm broke, and I must have
been dazed by a flash of lightning. The next thing I remember was being
awakened by the rain falling on my face as I lay unconscious beside
the car, which had been overturned."
"Were you badly hurt, dear?"
"I was badly shaken and bruised, but the only cut was the one on my
head. I didn't know what to do at first. I thought I would walk back
to Staveley and tell them at the garage about the car. But finally
I decided to go on to the Cliff Farm, as it was so much nearer than
Staveley, and then go to Staveley by train in the morning. It must have
been nearly eight o'clock when I reached the farm and found the front
door open."
"We locked it," she interposed. "That is, Mr. Marsland did: he told me
that he was sure he heard the lock click."
"It was open when I got there--wide open," he persisted.
"Then Mr. Marsland was right. The murderer was in the house while we
were there. The crash we heard was made by him, and after we went away
he bolted and left the hall door open."
"The murderer was in the house while you were there," he said. "There
is nothing more certain than that. The murderer was Captain Marsland."
"I can't believe it," she said.
"Wasn't it he who put the idea into your head, after you had left the
house, that the murderer might have been upstairs all the time?"
"Yes, it was."
"And he told you that he had slammed the hall door when he left? You
didn't see him close it?"
"No, I was waiting for him down the path. After seeing poor Frank I
felt too frightened to stay in the house.
"Marsland left the door open, but told you he had closed it, his object
being to give the police the impression that it had been left open
by some one who left the house after he did. But I closed it when I
left--I distinctly remember doing so."
"What makes you suspect Marsland? He had no grudge against Frank. Why
should he kill him?"
"If Marsland didn't kill him, who did?"
"Any one may have done so. A tramp, for instance, who had broken into
the house and was there when Frank came home."
"Do tramps in this country carry revolvers?"
"Not usually. But since the war many of the men discharged from the
army do."
"There you've said it. Many of the officers who have been discharged
carry revolvers, but not the men. They have got used to doing it. At
the front only officers carry revolvers. And Marsland is an officer--a
captain. He was a captain in the London Rifle Brigade, in the battalion
to which Frank and I belonged."
"Oh!" There was a note of dismay in the exclamation of surprise. "Does
he know you, Arnold?"
"I was not one of his company, but of course he knows me."
"Did he know Frank? Do you think he knew Frank when he saw his dead
body in the room?"
"Of course he knew Frank. Frank was in his Company."
"He did not say anything to me about this as we walked home," said
Elsie thoughtfully. "And perhaps he has not told the police. It is very
strange."
"There is nothing strange about it. He had good reasons for saying
nothing."
"You think he shot Frank? Why should he commit such a crime?"
"My dear Elsie, strange things happen in war. Frank told me something
about Captain Marsland, and as soon as you mentioned his name it all
came back to me. But we thought he was dead. Frank told me he was
killed at the front--a stray bullet or something."
"What was it that Frank told you about him? I must know."
"Marsland sent a man to certain death to get him out of the way.
One night he sent Frank and another man--Collingwood, I think Frank
said his name was--as a listening patrol. They had to crawl up near
the German trenches and, lying down with their ears to the ground,
listen for sounds in the German trenches which might indicate that the
Germans were getting ready to make an attack. While they were out this
fellow Collingwood told Frank his history. Collingwood had a sort of
premonition that he would not get back alive, and he took Frank into
his confidence. He said he knew that Marsland had sent him out in
the hope that the Germans would get him. It appears that Collingwood
and Marsland were both in love with the same girl, and she preferred
Collingwood, though her parents didn't approve of him. Collingwood was
a gentleman, like a great many more of the rankers in Kitchener's Army.
He gave Frank a letter to this girl, and her photograph, and asked
Frank to see that she got them if he himself was killed. And killed
he was that night--through the treachery of Marsland. While they were
listening they heard the Germans getting ready for an attack. They
crept back to warn their comrades, but there was no one to warn. The
trench had been evacuated. When Marsland sent Frank and Collingwood
out as a listening patrol he had an order in his pocket to vacate the
trench, as it had been decided to fall back half a mile to a better
position. He thought he was sending Collingwood and Frank to their
death. Collingwood was killed. The Germans attacked before he and Frank
could get away, but Frank, as you know, was taken prisoner. I was taken
prisoner the same day, but at a different sector about a mile away.
Subsequently Frank and I met as prisoners--and after being tortured by
the Germans we got away."
"And did Frank deliver Collingwood's letter to the girl?"
"No, that is the sad part of it. The Germans took all his papers from
him and he never saw them again. He did not know the address of the
girl or even her name."
"It was a dreadful thing for Captain Marsland to do," she murmured.
"A great many dreadful things have been done out there," he said. "I'll
tell you my idea of how this murder was committed. Marsland thought
Frank had been killed by the Germans. After riding across the downs
beyond Staveley he met Frank, who was walking along the road to meet
me. He stopped Frank and pretended to be very friendly to him. They
talked over old times at the front, Marsland being anxious to know
how Collingwood had died and whether Collingwood had any idea that
he had been sent to his death. As there was no sign of my car, Frank
turned back with Marsland to the farm. While they were in the house
Frank let slip the fact that Collingwood had confided in him before he
died. Perhaps Marsland became aware of it through an effort on Frank's
part to get from him the name of the girl to whom Collingwood had been
practically engaged.
"No doubt there were angry words between them; and Marsland, in
order to save himself from being exposed by Frank to the regimental
authorities, and to the girl, shot him dead. That would be a few
minutes before you reached the farm. When you reached the house
Marsland had gone outside to remove traces of the crime--perhaps to
burn something or to wash blood-stains from his hands or clothing at
the pump. He left the key in the door so that he could enter the house
again. When he found the key gone he was confused: he was not certain
whether he had placed the key in the lock. He did not believe that any
one had entered the house, but to make sure on that point he knocked.
He was surprised when you opened the door, but he played his part so
well that you did not suspect he had been in the house before. As you
had not discovered the body, he thought it best that you and he should
discover it together. That would be less suspicious, as far as he was
concerned, than for you to go away without discovering it. Had you
betrayed any suspicion that you thought he was the murderer he would
have shot you too, and then made off."
"But his horse was there," she said. "It was quite lame. He could not
have ridden away on it; and to leave it behind was to leave the police
a convincing clue that he had been to Cliff Farm."
"I was forgetting about his horse," said Brett. "It was the fact that
his horse was there which made him knock after he saw the key had been
taken from the door. He had to brazen it out."
"The police have no suspicion of him, so far as I can ascertain," said
the girl.
"We must direct their attention to him," was the reply.
"Will you come back to Staveley and tell Inspector Murchison?"
"No, that would be injudicious. My instinct was right in telling me
to get out of sight when I saw Frank's dead body. It was after you
left the house with Marsland that I got there. The door was open as
I said--Marsland left it open purposely, and told you a lie about
closing it. I went upstairs, as I couldn't see Frank about below, and
when I saw him dead I felt immediately that his murder was but the
continuation of some black deed in France. I knew instinctively that
if I didn't disappear I should be the next victim. And so I should be
if Marsland knew how much I know about him. The man is a cold-blooded
villain, who thinks nothing of taking human life. If I went back to
Staveley and accused him, he would take steps to put me out of the way.
We must get him arrested for the murder, and when he is under lock and
key I'll come back to Staveley and tell the police all I know about
him."
"But how can we get the police to arrest him unless you first tell them
all you know?" she asked.
"We must find a way," he said thoughtfully.