THE HUNT BALL MYSTERY
BY SIR WILLIAM MAGNAY, Bt.
Author of "A Prince of Lovers," "The Mystery of the Unicorn," etc., etc.
1918
Contents
Chap
I THE INTRUDER
II THE STAINED FLOWERS
III THE STREAK ON THE CUFF
IV THE MISSING GUEST
V THE LOCKED ROOM
VI THE MYSTERY OF CLEMENT HENSHAW
VII THE INCREDULITY OF GERVASE HENSHAW
VIII KELSON'S PERPLEXITY
IX THE CLOAK OF NIGHT
X AN ALARMING DISCOVERY
XI GIFFORD'S COMMISSION
XII HAD HENSHAW A CLUE?
XIII WHAT GIFFORD SAW IN THE WOOD
XIV GIFFORD'S PERPLEXITY
XV ANOTHER DISCOVERY
XVI AN EXPLANATION
XVII WHAT A GIRL SAW
XVIII THE LOST BROOCH
XIX IN THE CHURCHYARD
XX AN INVOLUNTARY EAVESDROPPER
XXI GIFFORD CONTINUES HIS STORY
XXII HOW GIFFORD ESCAPED
XXIII EDITH MORRISTON'S STORY
XXIV HOW THE STORY ENDED
XXV DEFIANCE
XXVI ISSUE JOINED
XXVII GIFFORD'S REWARD
CHAPTER I
THE INTRUDER
"I'm afraid it must have gone on in the van, sir."
"Gone on!" Hugh Gifford exclaimed angrily. "But you had no business to
send the train on till all the luggage was put out."
"The guard told me that all the luggage for Branchester was out," the
porter protested deprecatingly. "You see, sir, the train was nearly
twenty minutes late, and in his hurry to get off he must have overlooked
your suit-case."
"The very thing I wanted most," the owner returned. "I say, Kelson," he
went on, addressing a tall, soldierly man who strolled up, "a nice thing
has happened; the train has gone off with my evening clothes."
Kelson whistled. "Are you sure?"
"Quite." Gifford appealed to the porter, who regretfully confirmed the
statement.
"That's awkward to-night," Kelson commented with a short laugh of
annoyance. "Look here, we'd better interview the station-master, and have
your case wired for to the next stop. I am sorry, old fellow, I kept you
talking instead of letting you look after your rattle-traps, but I was so
glad to see you again after all this long time."
"Thanks, my dear Harry, you've nothing to blame yourself about. It was my
own fault being so casual. The nuisance is that if I don't get the
suit-case back in time I shan't be able to go with you to-night."
"No," his friend responded; "that would be a blow. And it's going to
be a ripping dance. Dick Morriston, who hunts the hounds, is doing the
thing top-hole. Now let's see what the worthy and obliging Prior can
do for us."
The station-master was prepared to do everything in his power, but
that did not extend to altering the times of the trains or shortening
the mileage they had to travel. He wired for the suit-case to be put
out at Medford, the next stop, some forty miles on, and sent back by
the next up-train. "But that," he explained, "is a slow one and is
not due here till 9.47. However, I'll send it on directly it arrives,
and you should get it by ten o'clock or a few minutes after. You are
staying at the _Lion_?"
"Yes."
"Not more than ten or twelve minutes' drive. I'll do my best and there
shall be no delay."
The two men thanked him and walked out to the station yard, where a
porter waited with the rest of Gifford's luggage.
"There is a gentleman here going to the _Lion_" he said with a rather
embarrassed air; "I told him your fly was engaged, sir; but he said
perhaps you would let him share it with you."
Kelson looked black. "I like the way some people have of taking things
for granted. Cheek, I call it. He had better wait or walk."
"The gentleman said he was in a hurry, sir," the porter observed
apologetically.
"No reason why he should squash us up in the fly," Kelson returned. "I'll
have a word with the gentleman. Where is he?"
"I think he is in the fly, sir."
"The devil he is! We'll have him out, Hugh. Infernally cool." And he
strode off towards the waiting fly.
"Better see what sort of chap he is before you go for him, Harry,"
Gifford said deprecatingly as he followed. He knew his masterful friend's
quick temper, and anticipated a row.
"If you don't mind, this is my fly, sir," Kelson was saying as Gifford
reached him.
"The porter told me it was the _Golden Lion_ conveyance," a strong,
deeply modulated voice replied from the fly.
"And I think he told you it was engaged," Kelson rejoined bluffly.
"I did not quite understand that," the voice of the occupant replied in
an even tone. "I am sorry if there has been any misunderstanding; but as
I am going to the hotel--"
"That is no reason why you should take our fly," Kelson retorted, his
temper rising at the other's coolness. "I must ask you to vacate it at
once," he added with heat.
"How many of you are there?" The man leaned forward showing in the
doorway a handsome face, dark almost to swarthiness. "Only two? Surely
there is no need to turn me out. You don't want to play the dog in the
manger. There is room for all three, and I shall be happy to contribute
my share of the fare."
"I don't want anything of the sort--"
Kelson was beginning angrily when Gifford intervened pacifically.
"It is all right, Harry. We can squeeze in. The fellow seems more or less
a gentleman; don't let's be churlish," he added in an undertone.
"But it is infernal impudence," Kelson protested.
"Yes; but we don't want a row. It is not as though there was another
conveyance he could take."
"All right. I suppose we shall have to put up with the brute," Kelson
assented grudgingly. "But I hate being bounced like this."
Gifford took a step to the carriage-door. "I think we can all three pack
in," he said civilly.
"I'll take the front seat, if you like," the stranger said, without,
however, showing much inclination to move.
"Oh, no; stay where you are," Gifford answered. "I fancy I am the
smallest of the three; I shall be quite comfortable there. Come
along, Harry."
With no very amiable face Kelson got in and took the vacant seat by the
stranger. His attitude was not conducive to geniality, and so for a while
there was silence. At length as they turned from the station approach on
to the main road the stranger spoke. His deep-toned voice had a musical
ring in it, yet somehow to Gifford's way of thinking it was detestable.
Perhaps it was the speaker's rather aggressive and, to a man,
objectionable personality, which made it seem so.
"I am sorry to inconvenience you," he said, more with an air of saying
the right thing than from any real touch of regret. "On an occasion like
this they ought to provide more conveyances. But country towns are
hopeless."
"Oh, it is all right," Gifford responded politely. "The drive is not
very long."
"A mile?" The man's musical inflection jarred on Gifford, who began to
wonder whether their companion could be a professional singer. One of
their own class he certainly was not.
"I presume you gentlemen are going to the Hunt Ball?" he asked.
"Yes," Gifford answered.
"Rather a new departure having it in a private house," the man said.
"Quite a sound idea, I have no doubt Morriston will do us as well--much
better than we should fare at the local hotel or Assembly Rooms."
"Are you going?" They were the first words Kelson had uttered since the
start, and the slight surprise in their tone was not quite complimentary.
It must have so struck the other, seeing that he replied with a touch of
resentment:
"Yes. Why not?"
"No reason at all," Kelson answered, except that I don't remember to have
seen you out with the Cumberbatch."
"I dare say not," the other rejoined easily. "It is some years since I
hunted with them. I'm living down in the south now, and when I'm at home
usually turn out with the Bavistock. Quite a decent little pack, _faute
de mieux_; and Bobby Amphlett, who hunts them, is a great pal of mine."
"I see," Kelson observed guardedly. "Yes, I believe they are quite good
as far as they go."
The stranger gave a short laugh. "They, or rather a topping old dog-fox,
took us an eleven mile point the other day, which was good enough in that
country. Being in town I thought I would run down to this dance for old
acquaintance' sake. Dare say one will meet some old friends."
"No doubt," Kelson responded dryly.
"As you have been good enough to ask me to share your fly," the man
observed, with a rather aggressive touch of irony, "I may as well let you
know who I am. My name is Henshaw, Clement Henshaw."
"Any relation to Gervase Henshaw?" Gifford asked.
"He is my brother. You know him?"
"Only by reputation at my profession, the Bar. And I came across a book
of his the other day."
"Ah, yes. Gervase scribbles when he has time. He is by way of being an
authority on criminology."
"And is, I should say," Gifford added civilly.
"Yes; he is a smart fellow. Has the brains of the family. I'm all for
sport and the open-air life."
"And yet," thought Gifford, glancing at the dark, rather intriguing face
opposite to him, "you don't look a sportsman. More a _viveur_ than a
regular open-air man, more at home in London or Paris than in the
stubbles or covert." But he merely nodded acceptance of Henshaw's
statement.
"My name is Kelson," the soldier said, supplying an omission due to
Henshaw's talk of himself. "I have hunted this country pretty regularly
since I left the Service. And my friend is Hugh Gifford."
"Gifford? Did not Wynford Place where we are going to-night belong to the
Giffords?" Henshaw asked, curiosity overcoming tact.
"Yes," Gifford answered, "to an uncle of mine. He sold it lately to
Morriston."
"Ah; a pity. Fine old place," Henshaw observed casually. "Naturally you
know it well."
"I have had very good times there," Gifford answered, with a certain
reserve as though disinclined to discuss the subject with a stranger. "I
have come down now also for old acquaintance' sake," he added casually.
"I see," Henshaw responded. "Not altogether pleasant, though, to see an
old family place in the hands of strangers. Personally, when a thing is
irrevocably gone, as, I take it, Wynford Place is, I believe in letting
it slide out of one's mind, and having no sentiment about it."
"No doubt a very convenient plan," Gifford replied dryly. "All the same,
if I can retrieve my evening kit, which has gone astray, I hope to enjoy
myself at Wynford Place to-night without being troubled with undue
sentimentality."
"Good," Henshaw responded with what seemed a half-smothered yawn. "Regret
for a thing that is gone past recall does not pay; though as long as
there is a chance of getting it I believe in never calling oneself
beaten. Here we are at the _Lion_."