THE CLOAK OF NIGHT
At the inquest which was held next day nothing was elicited which could
offer any solution of the mystery of Clement Henshaw's death. It seemed
to be pretty generally accepted to be a case of suicide, although that
view was opposed in evidence, not only by Gervase Henshaw on general
grounds, but also by the medical witnesses, who had grave doubts whether
the mortal wound had been self-inflicted.
"Just possible but decidedly improbable, both from the position of the
wound and the direction of the blow," was Dr. Page's opinion.
It was a downward, oblique stab in the throat which had pierced the
larynx and penetrated the jugular vein. The deceased would have been
unable to cry out and would probably have quickly become insensible from
asphyxiation. Unless he was left-handed the stab could scarcely have been
self-given.
The police authorities committed themselves to no definite theory at that
stage, and at their request the inquiry was adjourned for a month.
Morriston, leaving the hall with Kelson and Gifford, asked them to walk
back with him to Wynford Place.
"Let us throw off this depressing business as well as we can," he said.
"Of course I have had to break it to my sister and the others; they would
have seen it to-day in print. Thank goodness the papers don't look beyond
the suicide idea, so they are not making much fuss about it. If they took
a more sensational view, as I fear they will now after the medical
evidence, it would be a terrible nuisance."
"I hope the ladies were not much upset when you told them,"
Gifford remarked.
"Well, they already had an idea that something was seriously wrong, and
that took the edge off the announcement. Of course they were horribly
shocked at the idea of the tragedy so close at hand, though I softened
the details as well as I could."
"If the suicide idea is to be abandoned," said Kelson, speaking with an
unusually gloomy, preoccupied air, "the police have an uncommonly
difficult and delicate task before them."
"Yes, indeed," Morriston responded. "And I should say that abnormally
keen person, the brother, will keep them up to collar."
"He means to," Kelson replied rather grimly. "We had him for an hour
last night cross-examining us, naturally to no purpose; we could tell
him nothing."
"He won't leave a stone unturned," Morriston said. "He proposes to return
here after the funeral in town."
"And I should say," observed Kelson, "if the mystery is to be solved he
is the man to solve it. What do you think, Hugh?"
Gifford seemed to rouse himself by an effort from an absorbing train of
thought. "Oh, yes," he answered. "Except that it is possible to be a
little too clever and so overlook the obvious."
"If," said Morriston, obsessed by the subject, "the case is not one of
suicide it must be one of murder. Where is Mr. Gervase Henshaw, or any
one else, going to look for the criminal?"
"Not among your guests, let's hope," Kelson said with a touch of
uneasiness.
"For one thing," Morriston replied, "they, or a good part of them, were
not exactly my guests. I can't tell who may have got a ticket and been
present. There was a great crowd. We may have easily rubbed shoulders
with the murderer, if murder it was."
"Yes, so we may," said Kelson alertly, though with something of a
shudder.
"Not a pleasant idea," continued Morriston. "But I don't see, if a bad
character did get in and mix with the company, why he should have done a
fellow guest to death, nor how he contrived to leave his victim and get
out of the room after he had locked the door."
"If the two men had a row over a girl, or anything else," Kelson said,
"there is still that difficulty to be surmounted."
Gifford spoke. "From what one could judge of the dead man's personality
and character it is not a far-fetched supposition that he must have
had enemies."
"Down here?" Morriston objected incredulously. "Where he was a stranger?
Unless some ingenious person, bent on vengeance, tracked him here and
then lured him into the tower. Then how did the determined pursuer
contrive to leave him and the key inside the locked room?"
At Wynford Place, where they had now arrived, they found several callers.
The subject of the tragedy was naturally uppermost in everybody's mind,
and the principal topic of conversation. Morriston and his companions
were eagerly questioned as to what had come out at the inquest, but,
except that the medical evidence was rather sceptical of the suicide
theory, were unable to relieve the curiosity.
"I think, my dear Dick," remarked Lord Painswick, who was there, "we can
furnish more evidence in this room than you seem to have got hold of at
the inquest." And he looked round the company with a knowing smile.
"What do you mean, Painswick?" Morriston asked eagerly. "Has anything
more come to light?"
"Only we have had a lady here, Miss Elyot, who says she danced with the
poor fellow."
"I only just took a turn with him, for the waltz was nearly over when he
asked me," said the girl thus alluded to.
"Did you wear a green dress?" Kelson asked eagerly.
"Yes. Why?"
"Only that it must have been you I saw with him."
"And can you throw any light on the mystery?" Morriston asked.
The girl shook her head. "None at all, I'm afraid."
"Did Mr. Henshaw's manner or state of mind strike you as being peculiar?"
"Not in the least," Miss Elyot answered with decision. "During the short
time we were together our talk was quite commonplace, mostly of the
changes in the county."
"Did he, Henshaw, know it formerly?" Morriston asked with some surprise.
"Oh, yes," Miss Elyot answered, "he used to stay with some people over
at Lamberton; you remember the Peltons, Muriel?" she turned to Miss
Tredworth. "Of course you do."
"Oh, yes," Muriel Tredworth answered. "I remember them quite well,
although we didn't know much about them."
"Don't you recollect," Miss Elyot continued, "meeting this very Mr.
Henshaw at a big garden party they gave. I know you played tennis
with him."
"Did I?" Miss Tredworth replied. "What a memory you have, Gladys. You
can't expect me to recollect every one of the scores of men I must have
played tennis with."
As she spoke she caught Gifford's eye; he was watching her keenly, more
closely perhaps than manners or tact warranted. "And do you find the
place much changed since your time, Mr. Gifford?" she inquired, as though
to relieve the awkwardness.
"Not as much as I could have imagined," he answered, through what seemed
a fit of preoccupation.
"Mr. Gifford has not had much opportunity yet of seeing how far it has
altered, with this tragic affair to upset everything," Morriston put in.
"No, it has been a most unlucky time for him to revisit Wynford," Miss
Morriston added in her cold tone. "I hope Mr. Gifford is not going to
hurry away from the neighbourhood in consequence."
"Not if I can prevent it," Kelson replied, with a laugh.
"I hope," Morriston said hospitably, "that whether his stay be short or
long Mr. Gifford will consider himself quite at home here. And I need not
say, my dear Kelson, that invitation includes you."
Both men thanked him. "We have already done a little trespassing in your
park," Kelson observed with a laugh.
"Please don't call it trespassing again," Miss Morriston commanded. "Let
me give you another cup of tea, Muriel."
"The old house looks most picturesque by moon-light," observed Lord
Painswick. "I was quite fascinated by it the other night."
"There is a full moon now," Gifford said. "We will stroll round and
admire when we leave."
"Don't stroll over the edge of the haha as I very nearly did one night,"
Morriston said laughingly. "When it lies in the shadow of the house it is
a regular trap."
"Moonlight has its dangers as well as its beauties," Painswick murmured
sententiously.
"The friendly cloak of night is apt to trip one up," Gifford added.
As he spoke the words there came a startling little cry from Miss
Tredworth accompanied by the crash and clatter of falling crockery.
Gifford's remark had been made with his eyes fixed on his friend's
_fiancée_, to whom at that moment Miss Morriston was handing the refilled
cup of tea. A hand of each girl was upon the saucer as the words were
uttered; by whose fault it was let fall it was impossible to say. But the
slight cry of dismay had come from Miss Tredworth.
"Oh, I am so sorry," she exclaimed, colouring with vexation. "How stupid
and clumsy of me. Your lovely china."
"It was my fault," Edith Morriston protested, her clear-cut face showing
no trace of annoyance. "I thought you had hold of the cup, and I let it
go too soon. Ring the bell, will you, Dick."
"Please don't distress yourself, Miss Tredworth," Mr. Morriston entreated
her as he crossed to the bell. "I'm sure it was not your fault."
"Was that a quotation, Mr. Gifford?" Miss Morriston asked, clearly with
the object of dismissing the unfortunate episode.
"My remark about the cloak of night?" he replied. "Perhaps. I seem to
have heard something like it somewhere."
And as he spoke he glanced curiously at Miss Tredworth.