CREWE engaged a room in Whitethorn Gardens in order to watch Mrs.
Penfield's movements, and took up his post of observation immediately.
As he did not want Mrs. Penfield to know he was watching her house,
he had chosen an attic bedroom on the opposite side and some distance
higher up the steep street--an elevated vantage point, which not only
commanded a view of all the houses in the street but of a great portion
of Staveley and the surrounding country-side as well. From this eyrie
the detective could see the front, the downs, and the distant cliff
road to Ashlingsea; but the residence of Brett's landlady engrossed his
attention.
There was very little sign of life in the street. One or two old ladies
walked primly in the front gardens before dusk, but went inside as
soon as the evening sea-mist began to rise. Sedate maidservants lit
the gas and lowered blinds, and the street was left to darkness till a
lamplighter came and lit a street-lamp which stood near No. 41. Crewe
observed that the front rooms of No. 41 remained black and unlighted:
apparently Mrs. Penfield lived in the back of the house and took her
meals there.
As darkness was falling, Mrs. Penfield's elderly servant came from the
back of the house, carrying a large basket. She went out of the front
gate, turned up the street, and disappeared round the corner. About
half an hour later Crewe heard the front gate click, and saw Mrs.
Penfield appear. Her face was plainly visible by the street light as
she glanced anxiously up and down the street several times, as though
she feared she was watched. Then she turned down the street and walked
quickly away.
Crewe ran downstairs, let himself noiselessly out of the front door and
followed quickly in her wake. As he neared the bottom of the street, he
saw her a little distance in front of him. When she reached the end of
Whitethorn Gardens she turned to the right along the sea front.
The night was mild, and a few drops of rain were falling. The front
seemed deserted, and was shrouded in a mist which reduced the
lamplights to a yellow glimmer. It was an easy matter for Crewe to
follow closely behind the woman, conscious that the mist would shield
him from observation if she turned.
Mrs. Penfield walked rapidly along the front till she came to High
Street. Half-way along the front the mist seemed suddenly to grow
thicker and Crewe crept closer in order to keep her in view. She
walked swiftly with her head down, looking neither to the right nor
the left. She passed under the faint light of a street lamp, and as
Crewe came up behind he saw a uniformed figure in front of him. It was
Police Constable Heather who had come over from Ashlingsea on official
business. Heather was so pleased at this unexpected meeting with the
great London detective that he called out in a loud voice:
"Good night, Mr. Crewe."
Crewe answered softly and passed on. He could only hope that Mrs.
Penfield was so absorbed in her own thoughts that she had not heard
Constable Heather's stentorian utterance of his name. Suddenly he
heard her footsteps cease and he, too, came to a stop. Then he saw her
confronting him.
"Why are you following me, Mr. Crewe?" she asked in quick excited
tones. "It was you who telephoned to me to come up and see Inspector
Murchison. I should have known it was a hoax. You wanted to get me out
of the house."
"If I wanted to get you out of the house, Mrs. Penfield, why should I
follow you?" asked Crewe.
"But you were following me," she persisted.
"It is not the sort of night I would choose for such work," he replied.
"When I heard that man call out your name, I knew I had been hoaxed."
"By whom?" asked Crewe, who was puzzled at this example of feminine
reasoning.
"I shall go back and see," she said. "I will ring up Inspector
Murchison from there and find out if he sent a message to me to go up
to the police station."
Crewe was keenly interested in knowing if she had been hoaxed, and by
whom. Therefore he offered to accompany her home, as it was not a nice
night for a lady to be in the street unattended.
When they reached 41 Whitethorn Gardens, she opened the gate, and
walked up to the house rapidly. At the porch she stopped, touched Crewe
lightly on the arm, and pointed to the front door. In the dim light a
patch of blackness showed; the door was open.
"Come with me," she whispered, "and we will take him by surprise. Don't
strike a match; give me your hand."
She walked noiselessly along the dark hall, and turning into a passage
some distance down it led the way through an open doorway into a
room--a small and stuffy storeroom, Crewe imagined it to be, as the air
was suggestive of cheese and preserves.
"Go, Arnold, the police are here! Go at once!"
The words rang shrilly through the house. Crewe realized that he had
been tricked by the woman and he sprang forward to the door. But the
click of a lock told him he was too late. He struck a match and its
light revealed to him Mrs. Penfield standing with her back against the
door she had closed.
"There is a candle on the shelf behind you," she said composedly.
Crewe's glance followed the turn of her head; he lit the candle with
his expiring match. The candle flickered, then burnt brightly, and the
detective saw that he was in a small storeroom with shelves lining the
walls. He turned again to Mrs. Penfield who was watching him closely.
"Why did you alarm him?" he asked. "You think it was Brett?"
Although his tone was one of curiosity rather than anger, the woman
threw her arms out at full length as though she feared he would attempt
to drag her away from the door.
"Do not be afraid," said Crewe. "You have nothing to fear from me. And,
as for him, it is too late to pursue him."
"I must give him ample time to make his escape," she said. "You will go
and tell the police he was here."
"What makes you think it was Brett?" asked Crewe. "If he came back
this way--if he hoaxed you with a telephone message in order to get you
out of the house--he has shown a lamentable want of trust in you."
"He knows he can trust me," she said confidently. "He can never doubt
it after to-night."
"I cannot conceive why he should take the great risk of coming back,"
he said meditatively.
"That means you would like to go up to his rooms and find out what he
came for. But I forbid you. If you attempt to go upstairs, I will rouse
the neighbourhood with the cry that there are burglars in the house."
"I think you have more reason to be afraid of the police than I," said
Crewe. "However, I am in your hands. As far as I am concerned, you can
have full credit for having saved him to-night."
She showed her faith in this assurance by unlocking the door. Taking
the candle from the shelf, she led the way along the passage and the
hall again. She opened the front door, and held the candle higher to
light him out. She stood in the open doorway till Crewe reached the
garden gate.
He walked back along the front. The mist was still rising from the sea
in great white billows, which rolled across the beach and shrouded
everything in an impenetrable veil. It penetrated unpleasantly into the
eyes and throat, and Crewe was glad when he turned off the deserted
parade and reached Sir George Granville's house.
The servant who admitted him told him the family were in the
drawing-room, and thither he directed his steps. Lady Granville was
seated at the piano, playing softly. Marsland in an easy chair was
listlessly turning over the pages of a bound volume of _Punch_. Sir
George was in another easy chair a little distance away, nodding in
placid slumber with his handsome white beard on his breast, and an
extinguished cigar between his fingers.
Lady Granville smiled at Crewe as he entered, and stopped playing. The
cessation of the music awakened Sir George, and when he saw Crewe his
eyes wandered towards the chess-table.
"Do you feel inclined for a game of chess?" he exclaimed in his loud
voice. "I want my revenge, you know."
"I'll be pleased to give it to you," responded Crewe.
"A very unpleasant night outside," said Marsland.
"The mist seems to be thicker up this end of the front," replied Crewe.
"Have you been out in it?"
"I came in about five minutes ago. I went for a walk."
Lady Granville took a book and seated herself not far from the
chess-table. Marsland came and stood near the players, watching the
game. He soon got tired of it, however, and went back to _Punch_. Sir
George was a slow player at all times, and his anxiety when pitted
against a renowned player like Crewe made him slower than usual. He
studied each move of Crewe's in all its bearings before replying,
scrutinizing the board with set face, endeavouring to penetrate
his opponent's intentions, and imagining subtle traps where none
existed. Meanwhile, his fingers hovered nervously above the pieces
with the irresoluteness of a chess-player weighed down by the heavy
responsibility of his next move, and, finally, when the plunge
had been taken Sir George sat back, stroking his long white beard
doubtfully, and fixed his eyes on Crewe, as though mutely asking his
opinion of the move. "Game" seemed an inappropriate word to apply to
chess as played by Sir George Granville.
It was during one of these strategical pauses, after the game had
been in progress for nearly an hour, that Crewe heard a frightened
exclamation from Lady Granville. He looked up and saw Marsland standing
near the fire-place with his hand over his heart, swaying as though
about to fall. Crewe sprang forward and supported him to an easy chair.
"A little brandy," said Crewe quietly.
Sir George hurriedly brought a decanter of brandy and a glass, and
Crewe poured a little down Marsland's throat. The colour came slowly
back to the young man's cheeks, and he smiled feebly at the three faces
looking down at him.
"I'm afraid I've been giving you a lot of trouble," he said, with an
obvious effort to collect himself.
"I'll ring up for Dr. Harrison," Sir George spoke in a loud voice, as
though to reassure himself.
"There is not the slightest need to send for Harrison," said Marsland.
"I'm quite right again. I must expect these attacks occasionally for
some time to come. They're nothing--just weakness. All I need is a
good night's rest, and if you'll excuse me I'll retire now." He got up
and walked resolutely out of the room with square shoulders, as though
to demonstrate to those watching him that no trace of his weakness
remained.
"Do you think it is safe to leave him alone?" said Sir George turning
to Crewe, as the door closed on his nephew's retreating figure. "I
feel very anxious about him. Anything might happen to him during the
night."
"A good night's rest will do him more good than anything else. He has
been under a rather severe nervous strain during the last few days. We
will go to his room in a few minutes to see how he is."
They settled down to their game again and Lady Granville moved up her
chair near the chess-table for the sake of their company and pretended
to take an interest in the game. Only a few moves had been made when
there was a loud report of an explosion. Lady Granville jumped up from
her chair and screamed and then fell back into the chair in a faint.
"Look to her," said Crewe to his host, "while I go and see what's the
matter."
As he ran along the hall to the staircase he met two of the maids,
who with white faces and hands clasped in front of them seemed too
frightened to move.
"Where was it?" asked Crewe. "Upstairs?"
"Yes, sir, upstairs," said one of them.
"It came from Mr. Marsland's room," added the other, in an awed whisper.
Crewe ran straight for Marsland's room, expecting to find there some
evidence of a tragedy. As he burst into the room he saw to his great
relief that Marsland was there, leaning out of the window.
"What is it?" asked Crewe. "Did you fire a revolver?"
Marsland, who was wearing a dressing-gown, came from the window. In his
right hand he was holding a big revolver.
"I missed him," he said.
"Missed whom?"
"A burglar."
"It is very early in the night for a burglar to be out."
"He took advantage of the mist. He must have thought that there was no
one in the room. I had turned out the light and was resting on the bed.
I was half asleep, but he knocked a brush off the dressing-table as he
was getting through the window and that woke me up. I caught a good
glimpse of him and I fired. He dropped at once, and I thought I had hit
him, but when I looked out of the window I saw him disappear in the
mist. What an awful pity I didn't get him."
"How did you happen to be lying down with a revolver beside you?" asked
Crewe.
"I often take it to bed with me. That is the result of the life at the
front. And to-night I had a kind of presentiment that I should need it."
It occurred to Crewe that the young man had been subject to
hallucinations during his illness. This habit of sleeping with a
revolver under his pillow seemed to indicate that his cure was still
far from complete. Was the burglar a phantom of a sick mind?
He went over to the window for the purpose of looking out but his
attention was arrested by a stain on the outside sill.
"You did not miss him altogether," he said to Marsland. "Look here."
Marsland touched the stain and held a blood-stained finger up to the
light for his own inspection.