hope to find even greater happiness than has been my lot at Beverley.”
Andy was thoughtful. The Villa Frescoli, so far from being a little
place, was a palace, and Mr. Merrivan was not the kind of man who would
boast; a big white marble palace, he remembered, because the title of
villa had seemed so inadequate to him when it had been pointed out.
There was a woman in the party that day on the lake, a woman with a
practical housekeeping mind.
“They call it a villa,” she said, “but it would require a staff of a
hundred servants to run it.”
She had been over the place, which had been built for a Russian Grand
Duke.
Mr. Merrivan assumed a new interest in Andy Macleod’s eyes. He had
spent the evening wondering whether the Nelsons would drop in after
dinner, for such was the practice amongst members of the “community.”
But life ran much more conventionally than he had supposed, and,
really, there had been no reason why he should expect it to run
otherwise. Neighbours did not call on one another. Beverley Green kept
itself to itself.
Mr. Sheppard left early, and, at the invitation of his host, Andy took
his coffee into what Mr. Merrivan called his “den.”
He found himself in the room where Merrivan and Wilmot had been when
he had overheard their conversation on the previous night. In some
respects it was a remarkable apartment. It was long, and also appeared
narrower than it was. It ran from the front to the back of the house,
and was lighted from both ends by two tall windows. In the very centre
was a big carved fireplace, which would have been more in keeping with
a baronial hall, and it was probably due to this feature that the room
seemed out of proportion and the ceiling unusually low.
Oak panelling covered the walls, and the first thing Andy noticed was
the absence of books. Evidently Mr. Merrivan was not a literary man
and made no attempt to deceive a casual caller into believing that he
was. The pictures on the wall were mostly etchings, and very valuable.
Andy noticed some priceless examples of Zohn’s works, and Mr. Merrivan
pointed out to him, with justifiable pride, a cartoon of Leonardo da
Vinci.
For the fireplace he apologised. He had bought it from the executors
of Stockley Castle. The coats of arms of the Stockleys appeared on the
entablature. The furniture was good and modern—two deep settees fitted
into the window recesses, and beside Mr. Merrivan’s desk, which was in
that portion of the room at the front of the house, there was a long
table at the other end, a beautifully carved cabinet of Eastern origin,
and a sprinkling of most comfortable arm-chairs.
“I am a simple person with simple tastes,” said Mr. Merrivan
complacently. “My nephew thinks that the apartment is more like an
office. Well, I have been very comfortable in offices. You smoke,
doctor?”
Andy selected a cigar from the silver case that was pushed towards him.
“Do you find our community restful?”
Andy smiled.
“It is a delightful backwater,” he said, and Mr. Merrivan purred.
“I take a great deal of credit upon myself for its creation,” he said.
“I acquired these houses one by one. Some of them are very old, though
you may not think so, and it was I who laid out Beverley Green as you
now see it. I sold every house and made not a penny profit, sir, not a
penny,” he shook his head.
Andy was surprised.
“That was unbusiness-like of you.”
“Not at all, not at all,” said Mr. Merrivan, shaking his head. “The
idea is to get the right kind of people here. I am afraid they are
not quite the right kind. People are not all they seem, and character
deteriorates. But in contrast to your own active life, doctor, Beverley
Green must be very restful.”
They passed on to a discussion of crime and criminals, a discussion
which, in the main, took the form of questions on the part of Mr.
Merrivan and answers, long and short, according to the interest he had
in the particular object of Mr. Merrivan’s research, from Andy.
“Have you ever met in your travels,” Mr. Merrivan hesitated, “a man
named Abraham Selim?”
“Somebody else was asking me that very question,” said Andy. “Now who
was it? Anyway, I have not met him, Mr. Merrivan. He is rather a bad
egg, isn’t he?”
“He is a usurer, and, as I have every reason to believe, a
blackmailer,” said Mr. Merrivan soberly. “Happily I have not been in
his clutches, although other people—can you remember who spoke about
him? It was not Nelson, by any chance?”
“No, it was not Nelson,” said Andy. “I think it was Mr. Boyd Salter who
asked me whether I had met him.”
“Our feudal lord,” said Merrivan humorously. “A very nice man, Mr. Boyd
Salter. Do you know him very well? I was not aware that you had met him
when I was speaking to you the other day.”
“I met him the same afternoon,” said Andy. “I had to get his signature
as Justice of the Peace before I could remove my prisoner.”
“A charming fellow; we see too little of him,” said Merrivan. “He is a
nervous wreck in these days, I am told.”
Andy remembered the soft-footed servant and the silence of the house
and smiled. He left soon after. Mr. Merrivan would have accompanied him
to the guest house, but this Andy declined. He was anxious to be alone;
he wanted to make the journey at his leisure. The Nelson house could
only be seen from one part of the green.
“I seem to spend my time listening at people’s doors,” thought Andy.
He was standing opposite the gate, a very amazed man, for from within
there reached him the sound of a man’s violent raving. Suddenly the
door was flung open and two women came flying out, blubbering in their
rage. Behind them, with long strides, came Nelson. He was dressed in
his shirt and trousers and slippers. Andy guessed he was drunk, but
although he had seen many drunken men he had never met one who walked
so steadily as he followed the women outside the gate, or whose voice
and enunciation were so clear.
“Don’t ever let me see you again, you——” He broke into a volley of
vilest abuse.
“Father!” The girl was at his side and had slipped her arm into his. “I
think you had better come back.”
“I will not come back. I will do as I wish. Stella, go to your room!”
He pointed dramatically. “Am I to be talked to by these sluts, these
scourings of the gutter, I, Kenneth Nelson, an Associate of the Royal
Academy? I’ll not stand it!”
“Will you please come into the house, father, or are you anxious to let
Beverley Green——”
“Damn Beverley Green! I am superior to Beverley Green! A lot of retired
jam manufacturers! Go to your room, Stella.” But she did not move, and
then Andy thought it was a propitious moment to make his influence felt.
“Ah, Mr. Macleod.” Nelson was geniality itself.
“Good evening, Mr. Nelson. I wanted a little talk with you.”
He took the arm of the man and led him unresistingly into the house,
and the girl followed.
She was grateful, but she was frightened, curious to know more of him,
to see him at closer quarters, and humiliated by the circumstances
under which they met. First she recognised—and herein her gratitude was
founded—the strength of him. He was one who had handled men before. She
sensed something of his magnetism, and perhaps gave him greater credit
for the docility of her father than he was entitled to.
“I have just dismissed two impertinent members of the lower classes—two
infernal domestic servants, Mr. Macleod,” said Nelson, with a return
of his old hauteur. “The lower order are becoming more and more
unbearable. My dear,” he looked reprovingly at his daughter, “I cannot
congratulate you on your selection. I really cannot. Now get Mr.
Macleod something to drink, and I will have just a little tot to keep
him company.”
“Then we’ll have a tot of water, Mr. Nelson,” said Andy smiling.
“Water!” Kenneth Nelson did not attempt to disguise his contempt for
the suggestion. “Whilst I have a house and a cellar, my dear friend, no
guest goes away from here without a beaker of the good yellow wine of
Scotland. Ha, ha!”
Andy had expected to find the girl distressed, and was shocked to note
her self-possession, shocked because her very poise in this crisis was
eloquent of great experience. These outbreaks of Nelson must be of
frequent occurrence, he thought, and she seemed so young, such a child.
He had once read in a novel of a heroine that she was flower-like,
and had dismissed this description as a piece of extravagance on the
part of the writer. And yet the description fitted her. The petal
purity of her colouring, the stem straightness of her figure—it wasn’t
these things, though they were there, that he admired. She was a bud,
half-revealing the splendour of the flower, and yet wholly satisfying
in her immaturity. He had seen her kind in the higher forms at girls’
schools—something between girl and child—so exactly satisfying as they
were that you grudged their improvement.
She made no attempt to go in search of the whisky. She knew there was
none in the house.
“The cellar is empty, father,” she said drily. “There has been a
strike amongst the wine miners.”
Ridicule infuriated him, and he swung round on her, but something
brought his eyes to Andy. They dominated and held him.
“May I see your father alone for a few minutes, Miss Nelson?” he said.
“There is something I want to speak to him about.”
She nodded and disappeared.
“My dear fellow,” murmured Nelson in weak protest.
“You called me Mr. Macleod just now. You have forgotten that I am a
doctor. Have you seen a doctor lately?”
“No, I haven’t. My health is perfect, perfect,” said the other
defiantly.
“So far from being perfect,” said Andy, “you are on the verge of a
complete breakdown, from which you may never wholly recover. I can
tell you, without troubling to examine your heart, that you have an
aneurism. That made you jump, because you know it is true. I have
watched you at golf, and I know. Mr. Nelson, you will not live for
another year unless you stop drinking.”
Nelson blinked.
“You’re trying to frighten me,” he said. “I know I’m a fool, but I’m
not such a fool as you think. I’ve got a lot of trouble on my mind,
Mr.—Dr. Macleod.”
“You can get rid of the greatest by cutting out whisky—though I hate to
say anything that will reduce the manufacturing output of my native
land. Will you let me come over and see you to-morrow? Who is your
doctor?”
“Granitt of Beverley. I have never had him for myself. He attended my
poor wife.”
“Well, I’ll examine you and he can treat you. We’ll have a second
examination. I’ll call in Granitt. Probably he’ll want to run the rule
over you himself, but that isn’t going to hurt you very much.”
“I don’t know why——” began Nelson in his old haughty way, but Andrew
overrode his objections.
“I don’t want to alarm your daughter,” he said, lowering his voice, “so
we will not discuss it any further.”
When the girl returned she found her father almost lamb-like in his
mildness. Kenneth Nelson was terribly afraid, for he had had a shock
from which he was not likely to recover in a hurry.
“I think I’ll go to bed, Stella,” he said. “I am a bit run down. I
haven’t been feeling so well lately.”
Andrew was amused, but he did not smile. He walked with the girl to
the gate, waiting on the step whilst she put on a little scarf—a black
scarf, he noticed idly. There was a little red monogram in the corner.
Everything about her was interesting to him. He told her as they walked
down the path something of the conversation he had had with her father.
“I don’t for one moment suppose he has an aneurism, but I’ll see
Granitt. I think I know his son rather well—he was at Guy’s with
me—and we can fix up something peculiarly complicated that will keep
him away from drink for a very long while.”
“I hope so,” she said dubiously.
“You have lost faith, haven’t you?”
She nodded.
“A little. One gets that way.”
“I’ll tell you something,” he said. “There are taxi-cabs on the streets
run by a man named Stadmere. The Stadmere cabs are by far the most
luxurious of any. I have trained myself, when I have not been in a
very great hurry, to wait for a Stadmere. It is generally a long time
coming. Sometimes you can get one almost at once. But it is remarkable,
if you make up your mind that you will take nothing but a Stadmere, how
quickly it comes.”
“That is a parable,” she smiled. “But I am wanting something that is
even more rare than a Stadmere; I am wanting a miracle.”
He did not say anything to this, and she was regretting that she had
said so much to a stranger when he turned, holding the wicket gate with
his hands.
“I have even seen miracles happen,” he said. “They’re worth waiting
for, too, but I suppose when you’re very young, very impatient, days
pass so very quickly, and years are such enormous gulfs of time, that
you grow tired of waiting.”
“You talk like an old gentleman.” She smiled in spite of herself.
“A very old gentleman, with long white whiskers, eh?” he said
good-humouredly. “Old enough to be impatient sometimes. But still I can
wait!”
He held her hand in his for a moment, and she watched him crossing the
green until she saw his blurred figure enter the door of the guest
house.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE DEATH SHOT
The days went on. Andy extended his stay for another week. He consulted
Dr. Granitt, and that physician had called upon Nelson, and though he
had not discovered the alarming aneurism, he left his patient impressed
with the number and character of maladies from which he was suffering.
Andy did not see the girl again, save at a distance. His holiday was
approaching its end, and he really must put in a week at fishing. His
room at the guest house was a comfortable one, the golf course was
excellent, and there was really no reason why he should fish at all.
On Sunday he went to church. He went somewhat hurriedly, for he was in
his pyjamas reading when he saw Stella Nelson pass with a prayer-book
in her hand. He was in church ten minutes after she entered, and
secured a pew which gave him view of her profile. She recognised him
outside, and they walked back to Beverley Green together.
“It was rather an interesting sermon, don’t you think, Dr. Macleod?”
“Very,” he agreed, and tactfully changed the subject. He knew there
had been a sermon, because he had seen an old man curled up in one
corner of the pew fast asleep. But what it was about he had not the
slightest idea.
“I hear you are going away to-morrow,” she said.
“I had intended going to-morrow,” he said, “but probably I shall stay a
few more days, unless they turn me out of the guest house.”
She shook her head.
“Nobody is turned out of the guest house,” she said. “Except by the
police,” she added a little maliciously, and he chuckled.
As they strolled up the road a man was coming to meet them.
Unexpectedly he turned off and disappeared down a side-street.
“Sweeny looks as if he didn’t want to meet me,” said the girl with a
smile.
“I was thinking the same myself. Who is Sweeny?”
“He used to be Mr. Merrivan’s butler, but I rather think he left under
a cloud. He hates Mr. Merrivan.”
She was puzzled. She did not credit Sweeny with such a sense of
delicacy that he avoided her in order to save her an embarrassing
reminder of their last meeting. The explanation of his visit came from
Mr. Merrivan himself. That genial gentleman came up to them as they
were standing by the gate of the house.
“Good morning, Miss Nelson,” he said cheerfully. “You didn’t meet that
rascally Sweeny, did you?”
“I thought it was he,” she said.
“The scoundrel!” Mr. Merrivan shook his large fist. “He has the
audacity to show his nose in Beverley Green again. I caught the fellow
spying round my house—or, at least, my gardener did. If I had been at
church, as is my usual practice, I should probably never have heard of
his appearance. All these servants hang together.”
What was there especially heinous in overlooking Mr. Merrivan’s private
grounds, Andy wondered, when he explained to him that Sweeny had done
no more than wormed his way through a hedge, at which point he was
discovered by the vigilant gardener. Probably the vigilant gardener
would have said nothing, only Mr. Merrivan happened to be pottering
about—he was the sort of man who pottered—and had heard the sound of
voices.
Nothing remarkable happened that day, and the machinery of fate, which
in its working was to make Beverley Green world-notorious, did not
begin grinding until the moon came up over the hills.
Stella was reading in the hall. She had just been up to see her father
and make him comfortable for the night, since Mr. Nelson had taken the
medical advice very seriously and had not left his room since Andy’s
warning.
She was turning over the page when she heard a stealthy “Tap, tap” at
the window. She waited a moment, thinking she must have been mistaken
or that it was a dripping faucet in the kitchen she had heard. It
came again “Tap, tap, tap,” and she put down the book and got up. She
was not nervous. Arthur Wilmot, in the old days, used to attract her
attention that way when he wanted her to come out and walk round the
green.
She pulled aside the curtain and looked into the garden, but saw
nothing. Heavy clouds had been rolling up all the afternoon from the
south-west, and the moon was obscured. She walked to the front door,
and her hand was on the knob to open it when she saw a letter at her
feet. It had been pushed under the door. It was unaddressed, and after
a moment’s hesitation she tore it open. It was a long letter; four
pages were covered with close writing. At first she thought it was from
Arthur. She had had several letters from him, and they had all gone the
way of the first.
She turned to the signature, puzzled over it a little while, then began
to read. The further she read, the colder grew her heart, and tighter
seemed that restricted band about it, until she could hardly breathe.
She went out into the kitchen and drew herself a glass of water, and,
clutching the letter in her hand, she read it again, and every line
was a knife-thrust. Presently she found what she was seeking—a small
colt revolver which belonged to her father, and which she had locked
away in the old days, when his drunken threats meant more to her than
they did to-day. She found also a little green box, packed tight with
cartridges. With a duster she cleaned the pistol, opened it calmly, put
in three cartridges, and reclosed the breech. Then she went up to her
room, found a dark overcoat, put it on, and slipped the pistol into her
pocket.
Back in the hall she wished she had not burnt the letter; she wanted
to make absolutely sure. She could find out, she told herself. She was
cool and unshaken. The hand that turned the switch, plunging the room
into darkness, did not shake. She slipped on her scarf and made sure
that she had the key in her pocket before she closed the door gently.
At the garden gate she stopped to look over to the guest house. What
a strength was there! For one wild moment she was tempted to lay her
burden of agony upon his broad shoulders—for one moment. Then the
absurdity of it struck her. Call a police officer! So she went on, a
figure of doom, and her heart was as black as the room she had left,
for the light of hope had gone out.
Andy Macleod had changed his mind for the third time that day. He would
go to-morrow, he told himself; he was just being a stupid, sentimental
fool, and that is a confession which does not sound nice to a man of
thirty-five.
He walked over to the house, and, seeing the rooms black, he came back
to his own apartment and tried to read. He put the book down after
an unsuccessful attempt, undressed, and went to bed. He had a good
conscience and a good digestion, and, though he told himself he was
going to have a restless night, he was asleep within five minutes.
A rattling at the bedroom door awoke him instantly.
“Who is that?”
“Johnston the manager, sir. Can I see you? It is very urgent.”
Andy Macleod put on the light. The watch at his bedside marked the hour
of a quarter to two. What had happened? He guessed that a telephone
message had come through from headquarters requiring his presence in
connection with Scottie’s arrest, and he cursed that man unjustly.
His first glance at the manager’s face told him that the trouble was
nearer at hand. Johnston’s face was grey and his lips were trembling.
“Oh, sir,” he gasped, “such a terrible thing has happened. Mr. Pearson
told me to go and fetch you at once before I went to the police.”
“What is the matter?” asked Andy quickly.
“Mr. Merrivan, sir, Mr. Merrivan,” whimpered the man.
“What has happened?”
“Dead, sir, murdered, sir. Oh, it is dreadful!”
“Merrivan—murdered! Just wait a moment. I’ll be down in few minutes.
Make me a cup of tea if you can.”
He dressed rapidly, swallowed the tea that the manager handed him (how
the cup shivered and rattled in his hands!). Somebody else had notified
the local authorities. A sergeant of police opened the door of Mr.
Merrivan’s house to his knock.
“I’m glad you’ve come, sir,” he said. “This is a pretty bad business.
I’ve had every man of the police force roused and I’ve notified all
stations on the road.”
“Is he dead?”
“Oh yes, sir, he’s quite dead. He must have been dead an hour. I’ve
sent for Dr. Granitt.”
Andy nodded.
“Where is he?”
“There,” said the sergeant, “in his ‘den,’ as he used to call it.”
Andy opened the door and walked into the long room. All the lights
had been switched on, and he turned automatically to the right where
Merrivan’s desk was to be found, but he was not there. He lay at the
other end of the room, his feet towards the window, his hands upraised,
as though to ward off an attacker, and a fearful grin upon his face. He
had been shot at close quarters, for there was a blackening of powder
upon his white waistcoat.
There was no necessity to carry out a medical examination; one glance
at the still figure told its story.
CHAPTER NINE
THE RING OF STELLA NELSON
He came into the hall.
“Where are the servants?” he asked.
“The butler is pacifying the women, sir.”
“Send for him,” said Andy shortly.
The butler had heard nothing. His master had sent the servants to bed
early. He had said that he would put out the lights and lock up. He
often did this, so the butler did not see anything unusual in the order.
“Has he had any visitors this evening?”
The man hesitated.
“I couldn’t say for certain, sir. I heard voices once. I came down for
a candle, and I thought I heard him talking.”
“To whom?”
“Well, sir,” hesitated the man, “as far as I could judge, it was to a
lady.”
“Did you recognise her voice?”
“No, sir.”
“What time was this?”
“Between half-past ten and eleven.”
“Did you hear no shot?”
“No, sir. Something woke me up; it may have been that. Cook says she
heard a sound like a door creaking loudly. She came and woke me up. She
didn’t wake me up immediately she’d heard the sound, but lay shivering
in bed thinking it was burglars. Then she got up and knocked at Mr.
Merrivan’s door, and, as he didn’t answer, she came to me. That’s how I
discovered Mr. Merrivan, sir.”
“When you went into the room were the windows open or closed?”
“They were closed, sir.”
“Is there any other way out beside the front door?”
“Yes, sir. There’s a way out through the kitchen and there’s another
way out along the rosery path which Mr. Merrivan uses himself.”
The doors leading to both these exits were barred and bolted, and Andy
returned to the room where the murder had been committed. He noticed
something peculiar about the carved Chinese cabinet. The door did not
seem to fit, and, pulling it open, it came away in his hand. Then he
understood the utility of the cabinet. Inside was a steel safe, which
was also open. A bunch of keys dangled from the lock. He pulled open
this door, to discover that the safe was empty. Then in the fireplace
he saw a heap of burnt papers. Part of the heap was still smouldering
red, and carefully he extracted such unburnt scraps as remained. He
rescued a little leather-covered diary which had only been partly
consumed, and this he placed carefully on a piece of paper.
“Nobody is to touch those ashes, you understand, sergeant?”
“I understand, sir.”
Andy examined the windows. Those in the front of the house were secured
and had not been tampered with. He tried the windows at the rear, and,
as he had expected, one of them was unfastened.
“Excuse me, sir,” said the sergeant. “Did you see the letter?”
“The letter?” said Andy. “No, where?”