INVESTIGATION
Whilst Alan Thorold was dealing with Cicero and his sister in London,
Inspector Blair was co-operating with the Rector in obtaining evidence
relating to the murder. The inspector was a dry, dour, silent man,
born in England, but of Scotch descent. He was cautious to a fault,
and never expressed an opinion without having well considered what he
was going to say. It was now a common sight in Heathton for his long,
lean figure and the Rector's short, plump one to be seen constantly
together.
He was now in the Rectory dining-room with a good glass of port beside
him, and Mr. Phelps, standing on the hearthrug, was supplying him with
all the details he had collected in connection with the mystery. The
case was getting so much more interesting than Blair, the sad and
silent, had expected that he was becoming, for him, quite vivacious.
He asked the Rector one question after another.
"Mr. Thorold has gone to Dixon's Rents, sir?"
"Yes, Mr. Inspector; I expect he'll have some news for us when he
returns to-night."
"He seems a clever young gentleman," Blair said musingly. "I dare say
he will bring this man Gramp with him."
"Do you think that Gramp can point out the guilty person?"
"That, sir, I am not prepared to say offhand. If convenient, I should
like to take a look round."
"Certainly. Where shall we go, Mr. Inspector?" and Mr. Phelps rose
briskly.
"To the vault, if you please, sir. Afterwards we will call on Mrs.
Marry."
The Rector paused at the door.
"I told you all Mrs. Marry had to say about Brown."
"Quite so, sir. But I wish to have a look at the rooms occupied by the
man. Also, I think it would be as well to examine his luggage."
"Can you do that without a warrant?"
"I'll take the risk," said Blair coolly. "An examination may not be
quite legal under the circumstances, but as Brown undoubtedly procured
the key of the vault by that forged letter, I am entitled to look upon
him as a suspicious character. Should he come back, sir--of which I
have my doubts--I can account for my action."
"Humph! I think you are right. Come, then, and look at the vault."
To the vault they went, and found Jarks showing the outside of it to a
crowd of morbid sightseers. Indeed, the tragedy had drawn people from
far and near to Heathton, and the usually quiet place buzzed like a
hive. Mrs. Timber was making her fortune, and blessed the day she had
turned Cicero the tramp out of her house. To him alone did Mrs. Timber
ascribe the theft of the body. As to his connection with the murder of
Dr. Warrender, she was not so certain.
"Come, come!" cried Mr. Phelps, in his fussy manner, on finding Jarks
haranguing the crowd. "This is most ridiculous--most out of place.
Jarks, I am astonished at your desecrating the graveyard in this way."
"No desecration, reverend sir," said Jarks, in his rusty voice, "I wos
only showing 'em where I laid Muster Marlow by, comfortable. Go----"
"Go away--go away, all of you!"
"Come on to the right!" shouted Jarks. "I'll show 'ee where a soocide
as they brought in crazy is tucked away. A lovely grave with a good
view, an' as nice a stone as I iver seed. In my young days he'd have
been buried in cross-roads with a stake, but they do trate 'em kindly
nowadays. Ah yis. This way to the soocide, neighbors!" And Jarks
headed the crowd to the other side of the graveyard. The keen, cold
eye of Inspector Blair cleared them out more quickly than Jarks'
invitation.
"Dear me! most indiscreet of Jarks!" said the Rector, opening the door
of the vault. "Come in, Mr. Inspector. Here's a candle. Tut, tut! I've
burnt my fingers. Deuce take---- Hum--God forgive me for bad language!
This is the niche, Mr. Inspector; yonder the coffin--a very handsome
one. The lead is cut, you perceive. Ah, poor soul! And we meant it to
last till the Great Day."
While the Rector ran on in this fashion, Blair the silent examined the
empty coffin. He noted that the lead casing had been cut with a sharp
instrument, and very neatly done--so neatly that the inspector became
thoughtful.
"That wasn't done by a man in a hurry," he mused. But he said nothing,
and merely turned to Mr. Phelps with a question: "Who screwed down the
coffin?"
"Who?--bless me, let me think! Yes, yes. Dr. Warrender--poor
soul!--and Joe Brill. Faithful fellow, Joe! Would see the last of his
master."
"Wasn't the undertaker present?"
"Crank? Well, yes, he was. But I am sorry to say, Mr. Inspector"--here
the face of the Rector became severe--"that on that day Crank was
intoxicated."
"H'm! Who made him drunk?"
"Himself, I suppose," rejoined Mr. Phelps, a trifle tartly. "Crank
requires no one to tempt him."
"Few men do, sir," said Blair, and again examined the coffin. He
passed his long, delicate hand over every inch of it, particularly
fingering the lid; then he looked round the niche where it rested,
peered into the others, and considered well all that he saw, while Mr.
Phelps chattered. "Quite so," said the detective at length; "let us go
outside."
He examined the graveyard as carefully as he had done the vault. In
the angle formed by the Lady Chapel he found the long grass crushed
down, and part of it torn up to make a pillow.
"Humph! a squatting-place," said Blair, who had read a good deal about
prehistoric man. "A tramp has been sleeping here."
"A tramp!" repeated the Rector. "Of course that was Cicero Gramp, who
wrote the letter."
"No doubt. I dare say he saw the whole business." Blair continued his
researches, and came to a halt at the wall which divided church-yard
from pine-wood. He pointed to a loose stone which had been knocked
off. "Did you observe this before, sir?"
"No," replied Mr. Phelps, raising his pince-nez. "But that's nothing.
You see, the wall has been put together without mortar--simply stones
piled one on top of the other. A high wind, now----"
"I don't think a high wind knocked this stone off. You will notice,
sir, that it has fallen on the other side. Excuse me," and Blair,
active as a deer, leaped over the wall and disappeared into the
pine-belt. Phelps rubbed his nose, not understanding these Red Indian
methods. In ten minutes the inspector returned. "I can't find the
trail," said he, "but from the evidence of that wall, I suspect the
body was carried over it."
"Where to, Mr. Inspector?"
"Probably to a cart waiting on the highroad, which runs across the
moor. But, of course, I'm in the dark as to that. Let me see the
keyhole of the vault-door." He went back and had a good look at it.
There were no scratches to be seen. "Humph!" said the inspector; "this
was opened quietly enough, and by a man who knew what he was about.
There was no hurry or fumbling in putting in the key."
"Ah!" said the Rector, looking wise. "What key? Not this one?"
"No, Mr. Phelps, I don't suspect you. Probably the key was that stolen
from Mr. Thorold's desk by the Quiet Gentleman."
"You speak as though you were not quite sure."
"There might have been a third key," Blair said cautiously.
"If so, why should Brown have stolen Thorold's key?"
"That's one of the things I have to find out. Let us call on Mrs.
Marry."
Mrs. Marry was a voluble, buxom woman, with rosy cheeks, and a great
amount of curiosity as to matters which did not concern her. But,
clever as she was, it seemed that she had nothing to tell about Mr.
Brown. With many curtsies and much talk she conducted Rector and
inspector into a gimcrack parlor full of gaudy furniture, Berlin wool
mats, antimacassars, and wax flowers.
"When Jeremiah died," explained the widow with pride, "I spent the
nest-egg he left me on that elegant set of chairs and sofa, also on
the curtains, table, and glass lusters, which are considered very
fine. It was my intent, gentlemen, as a lone widder, to take in single
gentlemen, and they likes something to tickle the eye."
"A most inviting room, Mrs. Marry," said the Rector, perching himself
carefully on a fragile chair, all varnish and design, but entirely
wanting in solidity; "but Mr. Brown----"
"Ah, sir, he's gone where we must all go;" and Mrs. Marry wiped away
an imaginary tear.
But her remark called forth a question from Blair, who had been making
a close examination of the room:
"How do you know he is dead?"
"Bless the man! wouldn't he be back if he wasn't? I'm sure he was
comfortable enough, and my cooking is above blame, thank Heaven! If
any one----"
"Mr. Brown went out at nine o'clock?" said Blair, cutting her short.
"I won't deceive you, Mr. Policeman, he did. He stayed in most of the
day, and went out in the afternoon. At six he came back for his bit
and sup, and at nine he went out again to take the air. He said so, at
least, and I ain't set eyes on him since."
"He said so?" remarked Mr. Phelps.
"On his fingers, of course. He was dumb, sir, but not deaf, and he
conversed on his fingers wonderful. I can talk myself that way," said
Mrs. Marry gravely, "having a niece as is deaf and dumb in an asylum.
I expect it was my knowing the language as brought Mr. Brown here to
lodge."
"Where did he come from?"
"London town, he gave me to understand, sir. But he didn't talk
much--on his fingers--about himself. He was very quiet, ate and drank,
read books----"
"What kind of books?"
"Novels, sir--yellow novels, in a foreign tongue. Here, sir, is the
rosewood bookcase. He also wrote a great deal, but what I don't know.
I thought he had ideas of becoming a writing person himself."
Blair opened the bookcase, and one by one examined a dozen or so of
French novels ranged on the lower shelf. They were all by good
authors, the usual paper-covered cheap editions--nothing strange
about them. No name was written in any one of them. He shut up the
bookcase with a look of disappointment.
"Was your lodger a Frenchman?" he asked.
"Lor', sir, I dunno! He talked English with his fingers. I've seen him
reading the newspapers."
"He did not look like a foreigner," remarked the Rector.
"Ah! I quite forgot you knew the man, Mr. Phelps. Can you describe his
looks?"
"He was not very tall, had long white hair and a beard, ruddy cheeks,
and dark eyes. He was usually dressed in a gray suit, and walked with
a stout stick."
"Gout in his feet," put in Mrs. Marry, not at all pleased at being
left out in the cold. "He wore cloth boots for his gout--walked very
badly, did Mr. Brown."
"Strange!" murmured Blair, again looking round the room. "How could an
old man helpless through gout in the feet carry off a dead body?
Humph!"
"He carried off no dead body!" cried Mrs. Marry, crimson with wrath,
"if it's Mr. Marlow's corpse you're talking of. I believe Mr. Brown's
bin murdered like the doctor."
"Why do you believe so?"
"Because I've made up my mind to believe it," said Mrs. Marry
fiercely. "And I'd like to see the man as would change my mind."
"So should I," remarked Blair. "Well, Mrs. Marry, show me Mr. Brown's
room. I must examine his luggage."
"There's only one box, and that's locked."
"I'll take the liberty of opening it."
"But you can't. I'm an honest woman. What'll Mr. Brown say when he
comes back and finds his things gone? Besides, there's a trifle of
rent, and----"
"Hold your tongue!" said the inspector, with a glance which quelled
her. "I will take nothing away. You forget who I am, Mrs. Marry. Show
me the bedroom." And the landlady, thinking better of it, obeyed
without further argument.
The box was there--a common, brown-painted traveling-box. There was no
name on it, and it proved to be locked. The inspector asked for a
chisel, and forced it open. Within he found three suits of gray
clothes, some linen and socks, together with a pair of cloth
boots--nothing else. No name on the shirts, no tailor's tag on the
clothes. Evidently nothing of Mr. Brown's identity was to be learned
from his belongings.
"The man from nowhere," said Phelps, gazing blankly around him.
But Inspector Blair was not yet satisfied. He searched both
sitting-room and bedroom, questioned Mrs. Marry, looked at some torn
pieces of paper in the fireplace, and--found nothing. Rector and
inspector walked out of the cottage as wise as when they had entered
it. So far their search had been a failure.
All that afternoon Blair hunted the village for evidence. He heard how
Warrender had called at Mrs. Marry's house, how he had left there to
follow the Quiet Gentleman, who had been seen by the peasant going in
the direction of the moor. Blair recalled the loose stone dropped from
the churchyard wall, and his own theory that the corpse had been taken
to a cart on the road. He sent out the police, and had the heath
searched, even to the hut where the corpse had been, but all with no
result. And as yet he was ignorant of what Cicero knew.
Tired and baffled, he returned to Heathton to the inn. Here he found a
messenger from Mr. Phelps, asking him to call at the Rectory. He
hurried there, and was met by Alan Thorold, who presented Cicero and
Mrs. Warrender. Then the tramp told the story of all that he had seen.
Blair rubbed his chin.
"Can the doctor have helped Brown to do it?" he said half aloud.
"No, he did not!" cried Mrs. Warrender angrily. "My husband was as
good a man as ever lived. Why should he steal a corpse?"
"Humph! Why indeed!"
Blair recollected something he had seen in the vault of which he cared
not to speak until he could be more certain. So he held his peace.
"Even if the late lamented Dr. Warrender did violate the sanctity of
the tomb," said Cicero softly, "who killed the late lamented Dr.
Warrender?"
"Perhaps the shorter man who helped him," said the Rector.
"That was----"
"Hold your tongue just now," whispered Alan, for Cicero was about to
mention Joe Brill's name; "we'll come to that later. Who's that?"
It proved to be Mrs. Marry, who came in with part of a torn envelope
in her hand. On the envelope was an obliterated stamp, but the writing
had been torn off.
"I found this in Mr. Brown's room," she said, "on the floor by the
edge of the carpet. How it escaped my dusting I don't know."
Blair looked at this piece of evidence.
"Jamaica stamp," he said.
"Strange!" cried the Rector. "I know Marlow was at one time in
Jamaica."
"And my husband, Dr. Warrender, came from Jamaica," said the widow.
There was silence. They looked at one another. But no one had any
explanation to offer.