on the veil which Miss Rewse still kept down. “Of course I understand
that. Then there is nothing else you can tell me?”
“No, I fear not. I can only implore you to remember that no matter
what you may see and hear, no matter what the evidence may be, I am
sure, sure, _sure_ that poor Stanley could never do such a thing.”
And Miss Rewse buried her face in her hands.
Hewitt kept his eyes on the lady, though he smiled slightly, and
asked, “How long have you known Mr. Main?”
[Illustration: “‘HOW LONG HAVE YOU KNOWN MR. MAIN?’”]
“For some five or six years now. My poor brother knew him at school,
though, of course, they were in different forms, Mr. Main being the
elder.”
“Were they always on good terms?”
“They were always like brothers.”
Little more was said. Hewitt condoled with Miss Rewse as well as he
might, and she presently took her departure. Even as she descended
the stairs a messenger came with a short note from Mr. Bowyer
enclosing a telegram just received from Cullanin. The telegram ran
thus:--
_Body exhumed. Death from shot-wound. No trace of small-pox. Nothing
yet heard of Main. Have communicated with coroner.--O’Reilly._
II
Hewitt and Mr. Bowyer travelled towards Mayo together, Mr. Bowyer
restless and loquacious on the subject of the business in hand, and
Hewitt rather bored thereby. He resolutely declined to offer an
opinion on any single detail of the case till he had examined the
available evidence, and his occasional remarks on matters of general
interest, the scenery and so forth, struck his companion, unused to
business of the sort which had occasioned the journey, as strangely
cold-blooded and indifferent. Telegrams had been sent ordering that
no disarrangement of the contents of the cottage was to be allowed
pending their arrival, and Hewitt well knew that nothing more was
practicable till the site was reached. At Ballymaine, where the train
was left at last, they stayed for the night, and left early the next
morning for Cullanin, where a meeting with Dr. O’Reilly at the
mortuary had been appointed. There the body lay stripped of its
shroud, calm and gray, and beginning to grow ugly, with a scarcely
noticeable breach in the flesh of the left breast.
“The wound has been thoroughly cleansed, closed and stopped with a
carbolic plug before interment,” Dr. O’Reilly said. He was a
middle-aged, grizzled man, with a face whereon many recent sleepless
nights had left their traces. “I have not thought it necessary to do
anything in the way of dissection. The bullet is not present, it has
passed clean through the body, between the ribs both back and front,
piercing the heart on its way. The death must have been
instantaneous.”
Hewitt quickly examined the two wounds, back and front, as the
doctor turned the body over, and then asked: “Perhaps, Dr. O’Reilly,
you have had some experience of a gunshot wound before this?”
The doctor smiled grimly. “I think so,” he answered, with just
enough of brogue in his words to hint his nationality and no more. “I
was an army surgeon for a good many years before I came to Cullanin,
and saw service in Ashanti and in India.”
“Come then,” Hewitt said, “you’re an expert. Would it have been
possible for the shot to have been fired from behind?”
“Oh, no. See! the bullet entering makes a wound of quite a different
character from that of the bullet leaving.”
“Have you any idea of the weapon used?”
“A large revolver, I should think; perhaps of the regulation size;
that is, I should judge the bullet to have been a conical one of
about the size fitted to such a weapon--smaller than that from a
rifle.”
“Can you form an idea of from what distance the shot was fired?”
Dr. O’Reilly shook his head. “The clothes have all been burned,” he
said, “and the wound has been washed, otherwise one might have looked
for powder blackening.”
“Did you know either the dead man or Dr. Main personally?”
“Only very slightly. I may say I saw just such a pistol as might
cause that sort of wound in Main’s hands the day before he gave out
that Rewse had been attacked by small-pox. I drove past the cottage
as he stood in the doorway with it in his hand. He had the breach
opened, and seemed to be either loading or unloading it--which it was
I couldn’t say.”
“Very good, doctor, that may be important. Now is there any single
circumstance, incident or conjecture that you can tell me of in
regard to this case that you have not already mentioned?”
Doctor O’Reilly thought for a moment, and replied in the negative.
“I heard, of course,” he said, “of the reported new case of
small-pox, and that Main had taken the case in hand himself. I was
indeed relieved to hear it, for I had already more on my hands than
one man can safely be expected to attend to. The cottage was fairly
isolated, and there could have been nothing gained by removal to an
asylum--indeed there was practically no accommodation. So far as I
can make out nobody seems to have seen young Rewse, alive or dead,
after Main had announced that he had the small-pox. He seems to have
done everything himself, laying out the body and all, and you may be
pretty sure that none of the strangers about was particularly anxious
to have anything to do with it. The undertaker (there is only one
here, and he is down with the small-pox himself now) was as much
overworked as I was myself, and was glad enough to send off a coffin
by a market cart and leave the laying out and screwing down to Main,
since he had got those orders. Main made out the death certificate
himself, and, since he was trebly qualified, everything seemed in
order.”
“The certificate merely attributed the death to small-pox, I take
it, with no qualifying remarks?”
“Small-pox simply.”
Hewitt and Mr. Bowyer bade Dr. O’Reilly good-morning, and their car
was turned in the direction of the cottage where Algernon Rewse had
met his death. At the Town Hall in the market-place, however, Hewitt
stopped the car and set his watch by the public clock. “This is more
than half an hour before London time,” he said, “and we mustn’t be at
odds with the natives about the time.”
As he spoke Dr. O’Reilly came running up breathlessly. “I’ve just
heard something,” he said. “Three men heard a shot in the cottage as
they were passing, last Tuesday week.”
“Where are the men?”
“I don’t know at the moment; but they can be found. Shall I set
about it?”
“If you possibly can,” Hewitt said, “you will help us enormously.
Can you send them messages to be at the cottage as soon as they can
get there to-day? Tell them they shall have half a sovereign apiece.”
“Right, I will. Good-day.”
“Tuesday week,” said Mr. Bowyer as they drove off; “that was the
date of Main’s first letter, and the day on which, by his account,
Rewse was taken ill. Then if that was the shot that killed Rewse, he
must have been lying dead in the place while Main was writing those
letters reporting his sickness to his mother. The cold-blooded
scoundrel!”
“Yes,” Hewitt replied, “I think it probable in any case that Tuesday
was the day that Rewse was shot. It wouldn’t have been safe for Main
to write the mother lying letters about the small-pox before. Rewse
might have written home in the meantime, or something might have
occurred to postpone Main’s plans, and then there would be impossible
explanations required.”
Over a very bad road they jolted on, and in the end arrived where
the road, now become a mere path, passed a tumble-down old farmhouse.
“This is where the woman lives who cooked and cleaned house for
Rewse and Main,” Mr. Bowyer said. “There is the cottage, scarce a
hundred yards off, a little to the right of the track.”
“Well,” replied Hewitt, “suppose we stop here and ask her a few
questions? I like to get the evidence of all the witnesses as soon as
possible. It simplifies subsequent work wonderfully.”
They alighted, and Mr. Bowyer roared through the open door and
tapped with his stick. In reply to his summons, a decent-looking
woman of perhaps fifty, but wrinkled beyond her age, and better
dressed than any woman Hewitt had seen since leaving Cullanin,
appeared from the hinder buildings and curtsied pleasantly.
“Good-morning, Mrs. Hurley, good-morning,” Mr. Bowyer said, “this is
Mr. Martin Hewitt, a gentleman from London, who is going to look into
this shocking murder of our young friend, Mr. Rewse, and sift it to
the bottom. He would like you to tell him something, Mrs. Hurley.”
The woman curtsied again. “An’ it’s the jintleman is welcome, sor,
sad doin’s as ut is.” She had a low, pleasing voice, much in contrast
with her unattractive appearance, and characterised by the softest
and broadest brogue imaginable. “Will ye not come in? Mother av
Hiven! An’ thim two livin’ together, an’ fishin’ an’ readin’ an’ all,
like brothers! An’ trut’ ut is, he was a foine young jintleman,
indade, indade!”
“I suppose, Mrs. Hurley,” Hewitt said, “you’ve seen as much of the
life of those two gentlemen here as anybody?”
“True ut is, sor; none more--nor as much.”
“Did you ever hear of anybody being on bad terms with Mr.
Rewse--anybody at all, Mr. Main or another?”
“Niver a soul in all Mayo. How could ye? Such a foine young
jintleman, an’ fair-spoken an’ all.”
“Tell me all that happened on the day that you heard that Mr. Rewse
was ill--Tuesday week.”
“In the mornin’, sor, ’twas much as ord’nary. I was over there at
half afther sivin, an’ ’twas half an hour afther that I cud hear the
jintlemen dhressin’. They tuk their breakfast--though Mr. Rewse’s was
a small wan. It was half afther nine that Mr. Main wint off walkin’
to Cullanin, Mr. Rewse stayin’ in, havin’ letthers to write. Half an
hour later I came away mesilf. Later than that (it was nigh elivin) I
wint across for a pail from the yard, an’ then, through the windy as
I passed I saw the dear young jintleman sittin’ writin’ at the table
calm an’ peaceful--an’ saw him no more in this warrl’.”
“And after that?”
“Afther that, sor, I came back wid the pail, an’ saw nor heard no
more till two o’clock, whin Mr. Main came back from Cullanin.”
“Did you see him as he came back?”
“That I did, sor, as I stud there nailin’ the fence where the pig
bruk ut. I’d been there an’ had me oi down the road lookin’ for him
an hour past, expectin’ he might be bringin’ somethin’ for me to cook
for their dinner. An’ more by token he gave me the toime from his
watch, set by the Town Hall clock.”
“And was it two o’clock?”
“It was that to the sthroke, an’ me own ould clock was right too
whin I wint to set ut. An’--”
“One moment; may I see your clock?”
Mrs. Hurley turned and shut an open door which had concealed an old
hanging clock. Hewitt produced his watch and compared the time.
“Still right, I see, Mrs. Hurley,” he said; “your clock, keeps
excellent time.”
[Illustration: “‘MRS. HURLEY,’ HE SAID, ‘YOUR CLOCK KEEPS EXCELLENT
TIME.’”]
“It does that, sor, an’ nivir more than claned twice by Rafferty
since me own father (rest his soul!) lift ut here. ’Tis no bad clock,
as Mr. Rewse himsilf said oft an’ again; an’ I always kape ut by the
Town Hall toime. But as I was sayin’, Mr. Main came back an’ gave me
the toime; thin he wint sthraight to his house, an’ no more av him I
saw till may be half afther three.”
“And then?”
“An’ thin, sor, he came across in a sad takin’, wid a letther. ‘Take
ut,’ sez he, ‘an’ have ut posted at Cullanin by the first that can
get there. Mr. Rewse has the sickness on him awful bad,’ he sez, ‘an’
ye must not be near the place or ye’ll take ut. I have him to bed,
an’ his clothes I shall burn behin’ the cottage,’ sez he, ‘so if ye
see smoke ye’ll know what ut is. There’ll be no docthor wanted. I’m
wan mesilf, an’ I’ll do all for ’um. An’ sure I knew him for a
docthor ivir since he come. ‘The cottage ye shall not come near,’ he
sez, ‘till ut’s over one way or another, an’ yez can lave whativir av
food an’ dhrink we want mid-betwixt the houses an’ go back, an’ I’ll
come and fetch ut. But have the letther posted,’ he sez, ‘at wanst.
’Tis not contagious,’ he sez, ‘bein’ as I’ve dishinfected it mesilf.
But kape yez away from the cottage.’ An’ I kept.”
“And then did he go back to the cottage at once?”
“He did that, sor, an’ a sore stew was he in to all seemin’--white
as paper, and much need, too, the murtherin’ scutt! An’ him always so
much the jintleman an’ all. Well, I saw no more av him that day. Next
day he laves another letther wid the dirthy’ plates there mid-betwixt
the houses, an’ shouts for ut to be posted. ’Twas for the poor young
jintleman’s mother, sure, as was the other wan. An’ the day afther
there was another letther, an’ wan for the undhertaker, too, for he
tells me it’s all over, an’ he’s dead. An’ they buried him next day
followin’.”
[Illustration: “‘HE LAVES ANOTHER LETTHER WID THE DIRTHY PLATES
. . . AN’ SHOUTS FOR UT TO BE POSTED.’”]
“So that from the time you went for the pail and saw Mr. Rewse
writing, till after the funeral, you were never at the cottage at
all?”
“Nivir, sor; an’ can ye blame me? Wid children an’ Terence himself
sick wid bronchitis in this house?”
“Of course, of course, you did quite right--indeed you only obeyed
orders. But now think; do you remember on any one of those three days
hearing a shot, or any other unusual noise in the cottage?”
“Nivir at all, sor. ’Tis that I’ve been thryin’ to bring to mind
these four days. Such may have been, but not that I heard.”
“After you went for the pail, and before Mr. Main returned to the
house, did Mr. Rewse leave the cottage at all, or might he have done
so?”
“He did not lave at all, to my knowledge. Sure he _might_ have gone
an’ he might have come back widout my knowin’. But see him I did not.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hurley. I think we’ll go across to the cottage now.
If any people come, will you send them after us? I suppose a
policeman is there?”
“He is, sor. An’ the serjint is not far away. They’ve been in
chyarge since Mr. Bowyer wint away last--but shlapin’ here.”
Hewitt and Mr. Bowyer walked towards the cottage. “Did you notice,”
said Mr. Bowyer, “that the woman saw Rewse _writing letters?_ Now
what were those letters, and where are they? He has no correspondents
that I know of but his mother and sister, and they heard nothing from
him. Is this something else?--some other plot? There is something
very deep here.”
“Yes,” Hewitt replied thoughtfully, “I think our inquiries may take
us deeper than we have expected; and in the matter of those
letters--yes, I think they may lie near the kernel of the mystery.”
Here they arrived at the cottage--an uncommonly substantial
structure for the district. It was square, of plain, solid brick,
with a slated roof. On the patch of ground behind it there were still
signs of the fires wherein Main had burnt Rewse’s clothes and other
belongings. And sitting on the window-sill in front was a big member
of the R.I.C., soldierly and broad, who rose as they came, and
saluted Mr. Bowyer.
“Good-day, constable,” Mr. Bowyer said. “I hope nothing has been
disturbed?”
“Not a shtick, sor. Nobody’s as much as gone in.”
“Have any of the windows been opened or shut?” Hewitt asked.
“This wan was, sor,” the policeman said, indicating the one behind
him, “when they took away the corrpse, an’ so was the next round the
corrner. ’Tis the bedroom windies they are, an’ they opened thim to
give ut a bit av air. The other windy behin’--sittin’-room windy--has
not been opened.”
“Very well,” Hewitt answered, “we’ll take a look at that unopened
window from the inside.”
The door was opened and they passed inside. There was a small lobby,
and on the left of this was the bedroom with two single beds. The
only other room of consequence was the sitting-room, the cottage
consisting merely of these, a small scullery and a narrow closet used
as a bath-room, wedged between the bedroom and the sitting-room. They
made for the single window of the sitting-room at the back. It was an
ordinary sash window, and was shut, but the catch was not fastened.
Hewitt examined the catch, drawing Mr. Bowyer’s attention to a bright
scratch on the grimy brass. “See,” he said, “that nick in the catch
exactly corresponds with the narrow space between the two frames of
the window. And look”--he lifted the bottom sash a little as he
spoke--“there is the mark of a knife on the frame of the top sash.
Somebody has come in by that window, forcing the catch with a knife.”
“Yes, yes!” cried Mr. Bowyer, greatly excited, “and he has gone out
that way too, else why is the window shut and the catch not fastened?
Why should he do that? What in the world does _this_ thing mean?”
Before Hewitt could reply the constable put his head into the room
and announced that one Larry Shanahan was at the door, and had been
promised half a sovereign.
“One of the men who heard a shot,” Hewitt said to Mr. Bowyer. “Bring
him in, constable.”
The constable brought in Larry Shanahan, and Larry Shanahan brought
in a strong smell of whisky. He was an extremely ragged person, with
only one eye, which caused him to hold his head aside as he regarded
Hewitt, much as a parrot does. On his face sun-scorched brown and
fiery red struggled for mastery, and his voice was none of the
clearest. He held his hat against his stomach with one hand and with
the other pulled his forelock.
“An’ which is the honourable jintleman,” he said, “as do be burrnin’
to prisint me wid a bit o’ goold?”
“Here I am,” said Hewitt, jingling money in his pocket, “and here is
the half-sovereign. It’s only waiting where it is till you have
answered a few questions. They say you heard a shot fired hereabout?”
“Faith, an’ that I did, sor. ’Twas a shot in this house, indade, no
other.”
“And when was it?”
“Sure, ’twas in the afthernoon.”
“But on what day?”
“Last Tuesday sivin-noight, sor, as I know by rayson av Ballyshiel
fair that I wint to.”
“Tell me all about it.”
“I will, sor. ’Twas pigs I was dhrivin’ that day, sor, to Ballyshiel
fair from just beyond Cullanin. At Cullanin, sor, I dhropped in wid
Danny Mulcahy, that intintioned thravellin’ the same way, an’ while
we tuk a thrifle av a dhrink in comes Dennis Grady, that was to go to
Ballyshiel similarously. An’ so we had another thrifle av a dhrink,
or maybe a thrifle more, an’ we wint togedther, passin’ this way,
sor, as ye may not know, bein’ likely a shtranger. Well, sor, ut was
as we were just forninst this place that there came a divil av a bang
that makes us shtop simultaneous. ‘What’s that?’ sez Dan. ‘’Tis a
gunshot,’ sez I, ‘an’ ’tis in the brick house too.’ ‘That is so,’ sez
Dennis; ‘nowhere else.’ And we lukt at wan another. ‘An’ what’ll we
do?’ sez I. ‘What would yez?’ sez Dan; ‘ ’tis none av our business.’
‘That is so,’ sez Dennis again, and we wint on. Ut was quare, maybe,
but it might aisily be wan av the jintlemen emptyin’ a barr’l out o’
windy or what not. An’--an’ so--an’ so----” Mr. Shanahan scratched
his ear, “an’ so--we wint.”
“And do you know at what time this was?”
Larry Shanahan ceased scratching, and seized his ear between thumb
and forefinger, gazing severely at the floor with his one eye as he
did so, plunged in computation. “Sure,” he said, “’twould be--’twould
be--let’s see--’twould be--” he looked up, “’twould be half-past two
maybe, or maybe a thrifle nearer three.”
“And Main was in the place all the time after two,” Mr. Bowyer said,
bringing down his fist on his open hand. “That finishes it. We’ve
nailed him to the minute.”
“Had you a watch with you?” asked Hewitt.
“Divil of a watch in the company, sor. I made an internal
calculation. ’Tis foive mile from Cullanin, and we never lift till
near half an hour after the Town Hall clock had struck twelve.
’Twould take us two hours and a thrifle more, considherin’ the pigs,
an’ the rough road, an’ the distance, an’--an’ the thrifle of
dhrink.” His eye rolled slyly as he said it. “That was my
calculation, sor.”
Here the constable appeared with two more men. Each had the usual
number of eyes, but in other respects they were very good copies of
Mr. Shanahan. They were both ragged, and neither bore any violent
likeness to a teetotaler. “Dan Mulcahy and Dennis Grady,” announced
the constable.
Mr. Dan Mulcahy’s tale was of a piece with Mr. Larry Shanahan’s, and
Mr. Dennis Grady’s was the same. They had all heard the shot, it was
plain. What Dan had said to Dennis and what Dennis had said to Larry
mattered little. Also they were all agreed that the day was Tuesday,
by token of the fair. But as to the time of day there arose a
disagreement.
“’Twas nigh soon afther wan o’clock,” said Dan Mulcahy.
“Soon afther wan!” exclaimed Larry Shanahan with scorn. “Soon afther
your grandmother’s pig! ’Twas half afther two at laste. Ut sthruck
twelve nigh half an hour before we lift Cullanin. Why, yez heard ut!”
“That I did not. Ut sthruck eleven, an’ we wint in foive minutes.”
“What fool-talk ye shpake, Dan Mulcahy. ’Twas twelve sthruck; I
counted ut.”
“Thin ye counted wrong. I counted ut, an’ ’twas elivin.”
“Yez nayther av yez right,” interposed Dennis Grady. “’Twas not
elivin when we lift; ’twas not, be the mother av Moses!”
“I wondher at ye, Dennis Grady; ye must have been dhrunk as a Kerry
cow,” and both Mulcahy and Shanahan turned upon the obstinate Grady,
and the dispute waxed clamorous till Hewitt stopped it.
“Come, come,” he said, “never mind the time then. Settle that
between you after you’ve gone. Does either of you remember--not
calculate, you know, but _remember--_the time you got to
Ballyshiel?--the actual time by a clock--not a guess.”
Not one of the three had looked at a clock at Ballyshiel.
“Do you remember anything about coming home again?”
They did not. They looked furtively at one another and presently
broke into a grin.
“Ah! I see how _that_ was,” Hewitt said good-humouredly. “That’s all
now, I think. Come, it’s ten shillings each, I think.” And he handed
over the money. The men touched their forelocks again, stowed away
the money and prepared to depart. As they went Larry Shanahan stepped
mysteriously back again and said in a whisper, “Maybe the jintlemen
wud like me to kiss the book on ut? An’ as to the toime--”
“Oh, no, thank you,” Hewitt laughed. “We take your word for it, Mr.
Shanahan.” And Mr. Shanahan pulled his forelock again and vanished.
“There’s nothing but confusion to be got from them,” Mr. Bowyer
remarked testily. “It’s a mere waste of time.”
“No, no, not a waste of time,” Hewitt replied, “nor a waste of
money. One thing is made pretty plain. That is that the shot was
fired on Tuesday. Mrs. Hurley never noticed the report, but these
three men were close by, and there is no doubt that they heard it.
It’s the only single thing they agree about at all. They contradict
one another over everything else, but they agree completely in that.
Of course I wish we could have got the exact time; but that can’t be
helped. As it is it is rather fortunate that they disagreed so
entirely. Two of them are certainly wrong, and perhaps all three. In
any case it wouldn’t have been safe to trust to mere computation of
time by three men just beginning to get drunk, who had no particular
reason for remembering. But if by any chance they had agreed on the
time we might have been led into a wrong track altogether by taking
the thing as fact. But a gunshot is not such a doubtful thing. When
three independent witnesses hear a gunshot together there can be
little doubt that a shot has been fired. Now I think you’d better sit
down. Perhaps you can find something to read. I’m about to make a
very minute examination of this place, and it will probably bore you
if you’ve nothing else to do.”
But Mr. Bowyer would think of nothing but the business in hand. “I
don’t understand that window,” he said, shaking his finger towards it
as he spoke. “Not at all. Why should Main want to get in and out by a
window? He wasn’t a stranger.”
Hewitt began a most careful inspection of the whole surface of
floor, ceiling, walls and furniture of the sitting-room. At the
fireplace he stooped and lifted with great care a few sheets of
charred paper from the grate. These he put on the window-ledge. “Will
you just bring over that little screen,” he asked, “to keep the
draught from this burnt paper? Thank you. It looks like letter paper,
and thick letter paper, since the ashes are very little broken. The
weather has been fine, and there has been no fire in that grate for a
long time. These papers have been carefully burned with a match or a
candle.”
“Ah! perhaps the letters poor young Rewse was writing in the
morning. But what can they tell us?”