Stacey would, probably, have pursued the subject further, but with a
gesture Mr Gilbert prevented him. The girl went on. "Mr Morice knew he
was my husband. I thought he had killed him to save me from him; he
thought I had done so to save myself. It is a puzzle. There is only one
thing that seems clear."
"And that is?"
"That it was a woman who killed my husband."
"I see what you mean. I have been trying to splice the threads. That
person who has just been here--Mrs Darcy Sutherland--do you think it
possible that she could have been that woman?"
"I should say that it was impossible."
CHAPTER XXXI
THE TWO POLICEMEN
Mr William Granger, of the County Police, was just finishing tea in his
official residence when there came a rap at the door leading into the
street. Mr Granger was not in the best of tempers. The county policeman
has not quite such a rosy time as his urban colleague is apt to
suppose. Theoretically he is never off duty; his armlet is never off
his sleeve. It is true that he has not so much to do as his city
brother in the way of placing law-breakers under lock and key; but then
he has to do a deal of walking exercise. For instance, Mr Granger had a
twelve-mile beat to go over every day of his life, hot or cold, rain or
shine, besides various local perambulations before or after his main
round was finished. Not infrequently he walked twenty miles a day,
occasionally more.
One would have thought that so much pedestrianism would have kept Mr
Granger thin; he himself sincerely wished that it had had that effect.
As a matter of fact he was the stoutest man in the village, which was
galling. First, because he was conscious that his bulk did not tend to
an increase of personal dignity. Second, because, when the inspector
came from the neighbouring town, he was apt to make unpleasant remarks
about his getting plumper every time he saw him; hinting that it was a
very snug and easy billet for which he drew his pay; adding a hope that
it was not because he was neglecting his duty that he was putting on
weight so fast. Third, because when one is fat walking is apt to result
in considerable physical discomfort, and twenty miles on a hot summer's
day for a man under five foot ten who turns the scale at seventeen
stone!
Mr Granger, who had come back hot and tired, had scarcely flung his
helmet into one corner of the room, and his tunic into the other, when
his inspector entered. That inspector was fond of paying surprise
visits; he surprised Mr Granger very much just then. The policeman had
a bad time. His official superior more than hinted that not only had he
cut his round unduly short on that particular day, but that he was in
the habit of curtailing it, owing to physical incapacity. Then he took
him for another little stroll, insisting on his accompanying him to the
station and seeing him off in the train which took him back to
headquarters, which entailed another walk of a good six miles--three
there and three back--along the glaring, dusty road.
By the time Mr Granger was home again he was as bad-tempered a
policeman as you would have cared to encounter. Tea, which had been
postponed to an unholy hour, did but little to improve either his
temper or his spirits. He scarcely opened his mouth except to swallow
his food and snap at his wife; and when, just as she was clearing away
the tea-things, there came that rap at the door, there proceeded from
his lips certain expletives which were very unbecoming to a constable,
as his wife was not slow to point out.
"William! what are you saying? I will not have you use such language in
my presence. I should like to know what Mr Giles would say if he heard
you."
Mr Giles was the inspector with whom Mr Granger had just such an
agreeable interview; the allusion was unfortunate.
"Mr Giles be----"
"William!"
"Then you shouldn't exasperate me; you only do it on purpose; as if I
hadn't enough to put up with as it is. Don't stand there trying to put
me in a bad temper, but just open that door and see who's knocking."
Possibly Mr Granger spoke in louder tones than he supposed, because
before his helpmate could reach the door in question it was opened and
someone put his head inside.
"All right, Mr Granger, I'm sure that good lady of yours has enough to
do without bothering about opening doors; it's only yours very truly."
The newcomer spoke in a tone of voice which suggested complete
confidence that he would be welcome; a confidence, however, which was
by no means justified by the manner of his reception. The constable
stared at him as if he would almost sooner have seen Inspector Giles
again.
"You! What brings you here at this time of day? I thought you were in
London."
"Ah, that's where you thought wrong. Mrs Granger, what's that you've
got there--tea? I'm just about feeling equal to a sup of tea, if it's
only what's left at the bottom of the pot."
The speaker was a tall, loose-limbed man with a red face, and hair just
turning grey. From his appearance he might have been a grazier, or a
farmer, or something to do with cattle; only it happened that he was Mr
Thomas Nunn, the detective from London who had been specially detailed
for duty in connection with the murder in Cooper's Spinney. As Mr
Granger had learned to associate his presence with worries of more
kinds than one, it was small wonder--especially in the frame of mind in
which he then was--that he did not receive him with open arms. Mr Nunn
seemed to notice nothing, not even the doubtful glances with which Mrs
Granger looked into her teapot.
"There isn't a drop in here, and I don't know that it will bear more
water."
"Put in another half-spoonful and fill it up out of the kettle;
anything'll do for me so long as there's plenty of it and it's moist,
as you'd know if you saw the inside of my throat. Talk about dust!"
Mr Granger was eyeing him askance.
"You never come down from London. I saw the train come in, and you
weren't in it."
"No, I haven't come from London."
"The last train back to London's gone--how are you going to manage?"
"Well, if it does come to the pinch I thought that you might give me a
shake-down somewhere."
The policeman glanced at his wife.
"I don't know about that. I ain't been paid for the last time you were
here. They don't seem too anxious to pay your bills--your people
don't."
"That's their red tape. You'll get your money. This time, however, I'm
going to pay for what I have down on the nail."
"What's brought you? You know, Mr Nunn, this ain't an inn. My wife and
me don't pretend to find quarters for all the members of the force."
"Of course you don't. But I think you'll be interested when you hear
what has brought me. I may be wrong, but I think you will. I've come
from Winchester."
"From Winchester?"
Husband and wife both started.
"Yes, from Winchester. I've been to see that chap Baker. By the way, I
hear he's a relation of yours."
"Most of the people is related hereabouts, somehow; but he's only
distant. He's only a sort of a cousin, and I've never had much truck
with him though I ain't saying he's not a relation. What's up with him
now?"
"He made a communication to the governor, and the governor made a
communication to headquarters, and headquarters made a communication to
me. In consequence of that communication I've been paying him a call."
"What's the last thing he's been saying?"
"Well, he's been making a confession."
At this point Mrs Granger--who was lingering with the
tea-tray--interposed.
"A confession, Mr Nunn! You don't mean for to tell that after all he
owns up 'twas he who killed he man?"
"No, I can't say exactly that I do. It's not that sort of confession
he's been making. What he's been confessing is that he knows who did
kill him."
"Who was it, Mr Nunn?"
"Supposing, Mrs Granger, you were to get me that sup of tea. If you
were to know what my throat felt like you wouldn't expect to get much
through it till it had had a good rinsing."
The constable issued his marital orders.
"Now then, Susan, hurry up with that tea for Mr Nunn. What are you
standing there gaping for? If you were to know what the dust is like
you'd move a little quicker."
Mrs Granger proceeded to hurry. Mr Nunn seated himself comfortably at
the table and waited, showing no sign of a desire to continue the
conversation till the tea appeared. His host dropped a hint or two,
pointing out that to him, in his official capacity, the matter was of
capital importance. But Mr Nunn declined to take them. When the tea did
appear he showed more reticence than seemed altogether necessary. He
was certainly slower in coming to the point than his hearers relished.
Mr Granger did his best to prompt him.
"Well, Mr Nunn, now that you've had three cups of tea perhaps you
wouldn't mind mentioning what Jim Baker's been saying that's brought
you here."
Mr Nunn helped himself to a fourth.
"I'm in rather a difficult position."
"I daresay. It might make it easier perhaps if you were to tell me just
what it is."
"I'm not so sure, Granger, I'm not so sure. That relative of yours is a
queer fish."
"Maybe I know what sort of a fish he is better than you do, seeing I've
known him all my life."
"What I've got to ask myself is--What reliance is to be placed on what
he says?"
"Perhaps I might be able to tell you if you were to let me know what he
does say."
"Oh, that's the point." Mr Nunn stirred what remained of his fourth cup
of tea with a meditative air. "Mr Granger, I don't want to say anything
that sounds unfriendly or that's calculated to hurt your feelings, but
I'm beginning to be afraid that you've muddled this case."
"Me muddled it! Seeing that you've had the handling of it from the
first, if anyone's muddled it, it's you."
"I don't see how you make that out, Mr Granger, seeing that you're on
the spot and I'm not."
"What's the good of being on the spot if I'm not allowed to move a
finger except by your instructions?"
"Have there been rumours, Mr Granger? and by that I mean rumours which
a man who had his professional advancement at heart might have laid his
hand on."
"Of course there have been rumours! there's been nothing else but
rumours! But every time I mentioned one of them to you all I got was a
wigging for my pains."
"That's because the ones you mentioned to me were only
will-o'-the-wisps. According to the information I've received the real
clues you've let slip through your fingers."
Mr Granger stood up. He was again uncomfortably hot. His manner was
hardly deferential.
"Excuse me, Mr Nunn, but if you've come here to lecture me while
drinking of my wife's tea, since I've had a long and a hard day's work,
perhaps you'll let me go and clean myself and have a bit of rest."
"If there's anything in what Jim Baker says there's plenty for you to
do, Mr Granger, before you think of resting."
"What the devil does he say?"
"You needn't swear at me, Mr Granger, thank you all the same. I've come
here for the express purpose of telling you what he says."
"Then you're a long time doing it."
"Don't you speak to me like that, Granger, because I won't have it. I
conduct the cases which are placed in my hands in my own way, and I
don't want no teaching from you. Jim Baker says that although he didn't
kill the chap himself he saw him being killed, and who it was that
killed him."
"Who does he say it was?"
"Why, the young woman up at Exham Park--Miss Arnott."
CHAPTER XXXII
THE HOUSEMAID'S TALE
Mr And Mrs Granger looked at each other. Then the husband dropped down
into the chair which he had just vacated with a sound which might be
described as a snort; it was perhaps because he was a man of such
plethoric habit that the slightest occasion for surprise caused him to
emit strange noises. His wife caught at the edge of the table with both
her hands.
"Lawk-a-mussy!" she exclaimed. "To think of Jim Baker saying that!"
"It seems to me," observed Mr Nunn, with an air of what he perhaps
meant to be rhadamanthine severity, "that if there's anything in what
that chap says somebody ought to have had their suspicions before now.
I don't say who."
This with a very meaning glance at Mr Granger.
"Suspicions!" cried the lady. "Why, Mr Nunn, there ain't been nothing
but suspicions! I shouldn't think there was a soul for ten miles round
that hasn't been suspected by someone else of having done it. You
wouldn't have had my husband lock 'em all up! Do you believe Jim
Baker?"
"That's not the question. It's evidence I want, and it's for evidence,
Mr Granger, I've come to you."
"Evidence of what?" gasped the policeman. "I don't know if you think I
keep evidence on tap as if it was beer. All the evidence I have you've
got--and more."
His wife persisted in her inquiry.
"What I ask you, Mr Nunn, is--Are you going to lock up that young lady
because of what Jim Baker says?"
"And I repeat, Mrs Granger, that that's not the question, though you
must allow me to remark, ma'am, that I don't see what is your _locus
standi_ in the matter."
"Aren't you drinking my tea?"
"I don't see what my drinking your tea has got to do with it anyhow. At
the same time, since it'll all soon enough be public property, I don't
know that it's of much consequence. Of course a man hasn't been at the
game all the years I have without becoming aware that nothing's more
common than for A, when he's accused of a crime, to try to lay the
blame of it on B; and that, therefore, if for that reason only, what
that chap in Winchester Gaol says smells fishy. But at the same time
the statement he has made is of such a specific nature, and should be
so open to corroboration, or the reverse, that I'm bound to admit that
if anything did turn up to give it colour I should feel it my duty to
act on it at once."
"Do you mean that you'd have her arrested?"
"I do--that is if, as I say, I obtain anything in the nature of
corroborative evidence, and for that I look to Mr Granger."
There was no necessity for him to do that, fortunately for the peace of
mind and body of the active and intelligent officer referred to.
Evidence of the kind of which he spoke was coming from an altogether
different quarter. Indeed, it was already at the door.
Hardly had he done speaking than a modest tap was heard. Opening, Mrs
Granger found a small urchin standing in the dusk without, who slipped
an envelope into her hand, with which she returned into the room,
peering at the address.
"What's this? 'To the Policeman.' I suppose, William, that means you;
it's only some rubbish, I suppose."
She passed the envelope to her husband, who peered at the address as
she had done.
"Let's have the lamp, Susan, you can't see to read in this here light.
Not that I suppose it's anything worth reading, but mine ain't cat's
eyes anyhow."
The lamp was lit and placed upon the table. Mr Granger studied what was
written on the sheet of paper which he took from the envelope.
"Robert Champion was the name of the man who was murdered in the wood.
The mistress of Exham Park, who calls herself Miss Arnott, was his
wife. He came out of Wandsworth Prison to see her. And he saw her.
"Ask her why she said nothing about it.
"Then the whole truth will come out."
Mr Granger read this once, twice, thrice, while his wife and Mr Nunn
were watching him. Then he scratched his head.
"This is rummy--uncommon. Here, you take and look at it, it's beyond me
altogether."
He handed the sheet of paper to Mr Nunn, who mastered its contents at a
glance. Then he addressed a question to Mrs Granger, shortly, sharply.
"Who gave you this?"
"What is it?"
"Never mind what it is, woman! Answer my question--who gave it you?"
"It's no use your speaking to me like that, Mr Nunn, and so I'd have
you know. I'm no servant of yours! Some child slipped it into my hand,
but what with the bad light and the flurry I was in because of what
you'd been saying, I didn't notice what child no more than nothing at
all."
Mr Nunn seemed disturbed.
"It'll be a serious thing for you, Mrs Granger, if you're not able to
recognise who gave you this. You say it was a child? There can't be so
many children in the place. I'll find out which of them it was if I
have to interview every one in the parish. It can't have got so far
away; perhaps it's still waiting outside."
As he moved towards the entrance, with a view of finding out if the
bearer of that singular communication was still loitering in the
immediate neighbourhood, he became conscious that someone was
approaching from without--more than one. While he already had the
handle in his grasp it was turned with a certain degree of violence by
someone on the other side; the door was thrown open, and he found
himself confronted by what, in the gathering darkness, seemed quite a
crowd of persons.
"Is William Granger in?" demanded a feminine voice in not the most
placable of tones. Mr Nunn replied,--
"Mr Granger is in. Who are you, and what do you want with him?"
"I'm his sister, Elizabeth Wilson, that's who I am, and I should like
to know who you are to ask me such a thing. And as for what I want, I
want justice; me and my daughter, Sarah Ann, we both want justice--and
I'm going to see I get it too. My own cousin, Jim Baker, he's in prison
this moment for what he never did, and I'm going to see that he's let
out of prison double quick and the party as ought to be in prison put
there. So you stand out of the way and let me get inside this house to
see my brother."
Mr Nunn did as he was requested, and Mrs Wilson entered, accompanied by
her daughter, Sarah Ann. He looked at the assemblage without.
"Who are all these people?"
"They're my friends, that's who they are. They know all about it, and
they've come to see that I have fair play, and they'll see that I have
it too, and so I'd have everyone to understand."
By way of commentary Mr Nunn shut the door upon the "friends" and stood
with his back to it.
"Now then, Granger, who's this woman? And what's she talking about?"
Mrs Wilson answered for her brother.
"Don't you call me a woman, as if I was the dirt under your feet. And
as for who I am--William, who's this man? He's taking some fine airs on
himself. As what I have to say to you I don't want to have to say
before strangers, perhaps you'll just ask him to take himself outside."
"Now, Liz," observed her brother, fraternally, "don't you be no more
silly than you can help. This gentleman's Mr Nunn, what's in charge of
the case--you know what case. He saw Jim Baker in Winchester Gaol only
this afternoon."
"In Winchester Gaol, did he! Then more shame to them as put him in
Winchester Gaol, and him as innocent as the babe unborn! And with them
as did ought to be there flaunting about in all them fine feathers, and
with all their airs and graces, as if they were so many peacocks!"
"What might you happen to be talking about?"
"I'm talking about what I know, that's what I happen to be talking
about, William Granger, and so you'll soon learn. I know who ought to
be there instead of him, and if you've a drop of cousinly blood in your
veins you'll see that he's out of that vile place, where none of my
kith or kin ever was before, and that you know, the first thing
to-morrow morning."
"Oh, you know who did ought to be there, do you? This is news, this is.
Perhaps you'll mention that party's name. Only let me warn you,
Elizabeth Wilson, to be careful what you say, or you may find yourself
in worse trouble than you quite like."
"I'll be careful what I say, I don't need you to tell me, William
Granger! And I'll tell you who ought to be in Winchester Gaol instead
of Jim Baker--why, that there proud, stuck-up young peacock over at
Exham Park, that there Miss Arnott!"
"Liz! I've told you already not to be more silly than you can help.
What do you know about Miss Arnott?"
"What do I know about Miss Arnott? I'll soon tell you what I know about
your fine Miss Arnott. Sarah Ann, tell your uncle what you know about
that there Miss Arnott."
Then the tale was unfolded--by Wilson the housemaid--by degrees, with
many repetitions, in somewhat garbled form; still, the essential truth,
so far as she knew it, was there.
She told how, that eventful Saturday, the young mistress had been out
in the woods, as she put it, "till goodness only knows what hours of
the night." How, the next morning, the key of the wardrobe drawer was
lost; how, after many days, she, Wilson, had found it in the hem of her
own skirt, how she had tried the lock, "just to see if it really was
the key," of what the drawer contained--the stained clothing, the
bloody knife. She narrated, with dramatic force, how first Evans and
then Miss Arnott had come upon the scene, how the knife and the
camisole had been wrested from her, how she herself had been ejected
from the house.
When she had finished Mr Nunn looked up from the pocket-book in which
he had been making copious notes of the words as they came from her
lips.
"What you've said, Sarah Ann Wilson, you've said of your own free
will?"
"Of course I have. Haven't I come here on purpose?"
"And you're prepared to repeat your statement in a court of law, and
swear to its truth?"
"I am. I'll swear to it anywhere."
"You don't know what has become of that knife you've mentioned?"
"Haven't I told you that she took it from me?--she and Mrs Evans
between them."
"Yes; just so. Well, Mr Granger, all that I want now is a warrant for
the arrest of this young lady. And, at the same time, we'll search the
house. We'll find the knife of which this young woman speaks, if it's
to be found; only we mustn't let her have any longer time than we can
help to enable her to get rid of it, which, from all appearances, is
the first thing she'll try to do. So perhaps you'll be so good as to
tell me where I shall be likely to find the nearest magistrate--now, at
once."
"I am a magistrate. What is there I can do for you, Mr Nunn?"
Looking round to see from whom the unexpected answer came, they saw
that Mr Hugh Morice was standing in the open doorway. Closing the door
behind him he came into the room.
CHAPTER XXXIII
ON HIS OWN CONFESSION
Hugh Morice had been resorting to that medicine--in whose
qualifications to minister to a mind diseased he more than half
believed--a ride upon his motor car. Of late he had found nothing to
clear the cobwebs from his brain so effectually as a whiz through the
air. That afternoon, after he had left Exham Park, he had felt that his
brain stood very much in need of a clearance. So he had gone for a long
run on his car.
He was returning through the shadows, partially cured, when he found
what, in that part of the world, might be described as a crowd,
obstructing his passage through the village street. Stopping to inquire
what was the cause of the unusual concourse, he realised that the crowd
was loitering in front of Granger's cottage--the local stronghold of
the County Police. As he did so he was conscious that a shiver passed
all over him, which he was able neither to account for nor to control.
The answers, however, which the villagers gave to his hurried
questions, threw a lurid light upon the matter, and inspired him, on
the instant, with a great resolve. Dismounting, he entered the cottage,
just as Mr Nunn was addressing his remarks to Mr Granger. As he heard
he understood that, if what he proposed to do was to be of the
slightest effect, he had arrived in the very nick of time.
They, on their part, stared at him half bewildered, half amazed. He had
on a long motor coat which shrouded him from head to foot; a cap which
covered not only his ears but also part of his face; while his disguise
was completed by a pair of huge goggles. It was only when he removed
these latter that--in spite of the dust which enveloped him as flour
over a miller--they recognised who he was. He repeated his own words in
a slightly different form.
"You were saying, Mr Nunn, that you were requiring the services of a
magistrate. How can I serve you in that capacity?"
The detective stared at the gigantic figure, towering over his own by
no means insignificant inches, still in doubt as to who he was.
"I ought to know you; but, somehow, I don't feel as if I can place you
exactly, sir."
Mr Morice smiled.
"Tell him, Granger, who I am."
Mr Granger explained.
"This is Mr Hugh Morice, of Oak Dene, Justice of the Peace for this
division of the county. You can't have forgotten him, Mr Nunn; he used
to be present at the coroner's inquest."
"Of course; now that Granger reminds me I remember you very well, Mr
Morice. You have arrived at a fortunate moment for me, sir. I was just
about to start off in search of a magistrate, and that, in the country,
at this time of night, sometimes means a long job. I wish to lay an
information before you, sir, and ask for a warrant."
Mr Morice glanced at the three women.
"In presence of these persons?"
"I don't know that Mrs Granger need stop, or Mrs Wilson either. Mrs
Granger, you'd better take Mrs Wilson with you. It is partly in
consequence of a statement which this young woman has just been making
that I ask you for a warrant. Now, Mrs Wilson, off you go."
But Mrs Wilson showed reluctance.
"I don't know why I'm to be sent away--especially as it's my own
daughter--"
Hugh Morice cut her short brusquely,--
"Leave the room!"
Mrs Wilson showed him something of that deference which she had
hitherto declined to show to anyone else. Mrs Granger touched her on
the shoulder.
"I'm coming! I'm sure, Susan Granger, there's no need for you to show
me. No one can ever say I stop where I am not wanted."
When the two elder women had disappeared, Hugh Morice turned his
attention to Wilson the housemaid.
"Who is this young person?"
Mr Nunn informed him. Her story was gone through again. When she had
finished Mr Morice dismissed her to join her mother and her aunt.
"Now, Mr Nunn, what do you want from me?"
"A warrant for the arrest of Violet Arnott, of Exham Park."
"On what charge?"
"Wilful murder--the murder of Robert Champion."
"Of whom?"
"I said Robert Champion; but as it's not yet proved that was his name
we'd better have it in the warrant--name unknown. I may say, Mr Morice,
that that girl's statement is not all I'm going on. Within the hour
I've received this anonymous communication."
He handed the communication in question to Mr Morice, who turned it
over and over between his fingers.
"Where did you get this from?"
"I can't tell you just at the moment; but I daresay I shall be able to
tell you before very long. Of course it's anonymous; but, at the same
time, it's suggestive. Also a statement was made to me, of the most
positive and specific kind, by James Baker, at present a prisoner in
Winchester Gaol. Altogether I'm afraid, Mr Morice, that the case
against this young woman is looking very black."
"Are you in the habit, Mr Nunn, of making _ex officio_ statements of
that kind on occasions such as the present? If so, let me invite you
to break yourself of it. A man of your experience ought to know
better--very much better, Mr Nunn. I regret that I am unable to do
what you require."
Mr Nunn stared; possibly slightly abashed by the rebuke which had been
administered to him in the presence of Mr Granger.
"But, sir, begging your pardon, you've no option in the matter."
"Haven't I? You'll find I have--a very wide option. I shall decline to
allow a warrant to be issued for the arrest of the lady you have
named."
"But, Mr Morice, sir, on what grounds?"
"Very simple ones. Because I happen to know she's innocent."
"But that's no reason!"
"You'll find it is, since I also happen to know who's guilty."
"You know who's guilty? Mr Morice!"
"Precisely--Mr Morice. It is I who am guilty. Mr Nunn, I surrender
myself into your custody as having been guilty of killing a certain man
on a certain Saturday night in Cooper's Spinney. Is that in proper
form?"
"Are you serious, sir?"
"I mean what I say, if that's what you are asking, Mr Nunn."
"Then what about the tale that girl was telling, and that knife she
saw?"
"That knife is mine."
"Yours!"
"Exactly, and I'm afraid that knife is going to hang me."
"How came it in Miss Arnott's possession?"
"That's the simplest part of the whole affair. After I had used it she
found it, and has kept it ever since."
"Do you mean that she's been screening you?"
"Something like it. That is, I don't know that she was sure of
anything; but, I fancy, she has had her doubts. I daresay she'll tell
you all about it if you ask her. You see, Mr Nunn, I've been in rather
an awkward position. So long as it was only a question of Jim Baker it
didn't so much matter; it's quite on the cards that in the course of
his sinful career he's done plenty of things for which he deserves to
be hung. When it comes to Miss Arnott, knowing that she knows what she
does know, and especially that she has that accursed knife of mine,
that's a horse of a different colour. Since she has only to open her
mouth to make an end of me, I may as well make as graceful an exit as
possible, and own the game is up. I don't quite know what is the usual
course in a matter of this sort, Mr Nunn. My motor is outside. If it is
possible I should like to run over to my house. You may come with me,
if you please, and Mr Granger also. There are one or two trifles which
require my personal attention, and then you may do with me as you
please. In fact, if you could manage to let me have an hour or two I
should be happy to place at your disposal quite a little fortune, Mr
Nunn and Mr Granger."
"You ought to know better than to talk to me like that, Mr Morice.
After what you've just now said it's my duty to tell you that you're my
prisoner."
CHAPTER XXXIV
MR DAY WALKS HOME
It chanced that night that Mr Day, the highly respected butler at Exham
Park, paid a visit to a friend. It was rather late when he returned.
The friend offered to put him into a trap and drive him home, but Mr
Day declined.
"It's a fine night," he observed, "and a walk will do me good. I don't
get enough exercise out of doors. I like to take advantage of any that
comes my way. I'm not so young as I was--we none of us are; but a
five-mile walk won't do me any harm. On a night like this I'll enjoy it.
Thank you, Hardy, all the same."
So he walked.
It was just after eleven when he reached the village. Considering the
hour he was surprised to find how many people there were about. Mr
Jenkins had just turned his customers out of the "Rose and Crown." A
roaring trade he seemed to have been doing. A couple of dozen people
were gathered together in clusters in front of the inn, exchanging
final greetings before departing homewards. For the most part they were
talking together at the top of their voices, as yokels on such
occasions have a trick of doing. Mr Day stopped to speak to a man, with
whom he had some acquaintance, in the drily sarcastic fashion for which
he was locally famed.
"What's the excitement? Parish pump got burned?"
"Why, Mr Day, haven't you heard the news?"
"That Saturday comes before Sunday? Haven't heard anything newer."
"Why, Mr Day, don't you know that Sarah Ann Wilson, from up at your
place, has been over to Granger's, trying to get him to give her a
warrant for your young lady?"
"There's several kinds of fools about, but Sarah Ann Wilson's all kinds
of them together."
"So it seems that Granger thinks. Anyhow he ain't given it her. He's
locked up Mr Morice instead."
"What's that?"
Another man chimed in.
"Why, Mr Day, where are you been not to have heard that they've locked
up Mr Morice for murdering o' that there chap in Cooper's Spinney."
"What nonsense are you men talking about?"
"It ain't nonsense, Mr Day; no, that it ain't. You go over to Granger's
and you'll soon hear."
"Who locked him up?"
"Granger and Mr Nunn, that's the detective over from London. They
locked him up between them. It seems he gave himself up."
"Gave himself up?"
"So Mrs Wilson and her daughter says. They was in the kitchen, at the
other side of the door, and they heard him giving of himself up. Seems
as how they're going to take him over to Doverham in the morning and
bring him before the magistrates. My word! won't all the countryside be
there to see! To think of its having been Mr Morice after all. Me, I
never shouldn't have believed it, if he hadn't let it out himself."
Mr Day waited to hear no more. Making his way through the little crowd
he strode on alone. That moon-lit walk was spoilt for him. As he went
some curious reflections were taking shape in his mind.
"That finishes it. Now something will have to be done. I wish I'd done
as I said I would, and taken myself off long ago. And yet I don't know
that I should have been any more comfortable if I had. Wherever I might
have gone I should have been on tenterhooks. If I'd been on the other
side of the world and heard of this about Mr Morice, I should have had
to come back and make a clean breast of it. Yet it's hard on me at my
time of life!" He sighed, striking at the ground with the ferule of his
stick. "All my days I've made it my special care to have nothing to do
with the police-courts. I've seen too much trouble come of it to
everyone concerned, and never any good, and now to be dragged into a
thing like this. And all through her! If, after all, I've got to speak,
I don't know that I wouldn't rather have spoken at first. It would have
been better perhaps; it would have saved a lot of bother, not to speak
of all the worry I've had. I feel sure it's aged me. I could see by the
way Mrs Hardy looked at me to-night that she thought I was looking
older. Goodness knows that I'm getting old fast enough in the ordinary
course of nature." Again sighing, he struck at the ground with his
stick. "It would have served her right if I had spoken--anything would
have served her right. She's a nice sort, she is. And yet I don't know,
poor devil! She's not happy, that's sure and certain. I never saw
anyone so changed. What beats me is that no one seems to have noticed,
except me. I don't like to look her way: it's written so plain all over
her. It just shows how people can have eyes in their heads, and yet not
use them. From the remarks I've heard exchanged, I don't believe a
creature has noticed anything, yet I daresay if you were to ask them
they'd tell you they always notice everything. Blind worms!"
Perhaps for the purpose of relieving his feelings Mr Day stood still in
the centre of the road, tucked his stick under his arm, took out his
pipe, loaded it with tobacco and proceeded to smoke. Having got his
pipe into going order he continued his way and his reflections.
"I knew it was her from the first; never doubted for a moment. Directly
I saw her come into the house that night in the way she did, I knew
that she'd been up to something queer, and it wasn't very long before I
knew what it was. And I don't know that I was surprised when I heard
how bad it really was. All I wanted was to get out of the way before I
was dragged into the trouble that I saw was coming. If I hadn't known
from the first I should have found out afterwards. She's given herself
away a hundred times--ah, and more. If I'd been a detective put upon
the job I should have had her over and over again, unless I'd been as
stupid as some of those detectives do seem to be. Look at that Nunn
now! There's a precious fool! Locking up Mr Morice! I wonder he doesn't
lock himself up! Bah!"
This time Mr Day took his pipe out of his mouth with one hand, while he
struck at the vacant air with the stick in the other. Perhaps in
imagination he was striking at Mr Nunn.
"Poor devil! it must have been something pretty strong which made her
do a thing like that. I wonder who that chap was, and what he'd done to
her. Not that I want to know--the less I know the better. I know too
much as it is. I know that she's haunted, that never since has she had
a moment's peace of mind, either by day or night. I've the best of
reasons for knowing that she starts pretty nearly out of her skin at
every shadow. I shouldn't be surprised to hear at any moment that she's
committed suicide. I lay a thousand pounds to a penny that if I was to
touch her on the shoulder with the tip of my finger, and say, 'You
killed that man in the Cooper's Spinney, and he's looking over your
shoulder now,' she'd tumble straight off into a heap on the floor and
scream for mercy--What's that?"
He had reached a very lonely part of the road. The Exham Park woods
were on either side of him. A long line of giant beeches bordered the
road both on the right and left. Beyond again, on both sides, were
acres of pines. A charming spot on a summer's day; but, to some minds,
just then a little too much in shadow to be altogether pleasant. The
high beeches on his left obscured the moon. Here and there it found a
passage between their leaves; but for the most part the road was all in
darkness. Mr Day was well on in years, but his hearing was as keen as
ever, and his nerves as well under control. The ordinary wayfarer would
have heard nothing, or, not relishing his surroundings, would have
preferred to hear nothing, till he had reached a point where the moon's
illumination was again plainly visible. It is odd how many persons,
born and bred in the heart of the country, object strenuously to be out
among the scenes they know so well, alone in the darkness at night.
But the Exham Park butler was not a person of that kidney. When he
heard twigs snapping and the swishing of brushwood, as of someone
passing quickly through it, he was immediately desirous of learning
what might be the cause of such unwonted midnight sounds. Slipping his
pipe into his pocket he moved both rapidly and quietly towards the side
of the road from which the sounds proceeded. Just there the long line
of hedge was momentarily interrupted by a stile. Leaning over it he
peered as best he could into the glancing lights and shadows among the
pines. The sounds continued.
"Who is it? Hullo! Good lord! it's her!"
As he spoke to himself a figure suddenly appeared in a shaft of
moonlight which had found its way along an alley of pines--the figure
of a woman. She was clad in white--in some long, flowing garment which
trailed behind her as she went, and which must have seriously impeded
her progress, especially in view of the fact that she seemed to be
pressing forward at the top of her speed. The keen-eyed observer
watched her as she went.
"What's she got on? It's a tea-gown or a dressing-gown or something of
that. It's strange to me. I've never seen her in it before. So, after
all, there is something in the tales those gowks have been telling, and
she does walk the woods of nights. But she can't be asleep; she
couldn't go at that rate, through country of this sort, if she were,
and with all that drapery trailing out behind her. But asleep or not
I'll tackle her and have it out with her once and for all."
Mr Day climbed over the stile with an agility which did credit to his
years. As he reached the other side the woman in the distance either
became conscious of his presence and his malevolent designs or fortune
favoured her; because, coming to a part of the forest from which the
moon was barred, she suddenly vanished from his vision like a figure in
a shadow pantomime. When he gained the spot at which she had last been
visible, there was still nothing of her to be seen, but he fancied that
he caught a sound which suggested that, not very far away, someone was
pressing forward among the trees.
"She did that very neatly. Don't talk to me about her being asleep. She
both heard and saw me coming, so she's given me the slip. But she's not
done it so completely as she perhaps thinks. I'll have her yet. I'll
show her that I'm pretty nearly as good at trapesing through the woods
at night as she is. I don't want to be hard on a woman, and I wouldn't
be if it could be helped, but when it comes to be a question of Mr
Morice or her, it'll have to be her, and that's all about it. I don't
mean to let her go scot-free at his expense--not much, I don't, as I'll
soon show her!"
He plunged into the pitch blackness of the forest, towards where he
fancied he had heard a sound in the distance.
CHAPTER XXXV
IN THE LADY'S CHAMBER
Miss Arnott was restless. She had to entertain her two self-invited
guests--Mr Stacey and Mr Gilbert, and she was conscious that while she
was entertaining them, each, in his own fashion, was examining her
still. It was a curious dinner which they had together, their hostess
feeling, rightly or wrongly, that the most dire significance was being
read into the most commonplace remarks. If she smiled, she feared they
might think her laughter forced; if she was grave, she was convinced
that they were of opinion that it was because she had something
frightful on her mind. Mr Stacey made occasional attempts to lighten
the atmosphere, but, at the best of times, his touch was inclined to be
a heavy one; then all his little outbursts of gaiety--or what he meant
for gaiety--seemed to be weighted with lead. Mr Gilbert was frankly
saturnine. He seemed determined to say as little as he possibly could,
and to wing every word he did utter with a shaft of malice or of irony.
Especially was he severe on Mr Stacey's spasmodic efforts at the
promotion of geniality.
Miss Arnott arrived at two conclusions; one being that he didn't like
her, and the other that she didn't like him. How correct she was in the
first instance may be judged from some remarks which were exchanged
when--after the old fashion--she had left them alone together to enjoy
a cigarette over their cups of coffee, the truth being that she felt
she must be relieved from the burden of their society for, at anyrate,
some minutes.
Mr Stacey commenced by looking at his companion as if he were
half-doubtful, half-amused.
"Gilbert, you don't seem disposed to be talkative."
The reply was curt and to the point.
"I'm not."
"Nor, if you will forgive my saying so, do you seem inclined to make
yourself peculiarly agreeable to our hostess."
Mr Gilbert surveyed the ash which was on the tip of his cigar. His
words were pregnant with meaning.
"Stacey, I can't stand women."
With Mr Stacey amusement was getting the upper hand.
"Does that apply to women in general or to this one in particular?"
"Yes to both your questions. I don't wish to be rude to your ward or to
my hostess, but the girl's a fool."
"Gilbert!"
"So she is, like the other representatives of her sex. She's another
illustration of the eternal truth that a woman can't walk alone; she
can't. In consequence she's got herself into the infernal muddle she
has done. The first male who, so to speak, got within reach of her,
took her by the scruff of the neck, and made her keep step with him. He
happened to be a scamp, so there's all this to do. It constantly is
like that. Most women are like mirrors--mere surfaces on which to
reflect their owners; and when their owners take it into their heads to
smash the mirrors, why, they're smashed. When I think of what an ass
this young woman has made of herself and others, merely because she's a
woman, and therefore couldn't help it, something sticks in my throat. I
can't be civil to her; it's no use trying. I want to get in touch with
something vertebrate: I can't stand molluscs."
Under the circumstances it was not strange that matters in the
drawing-room were no more lively than they had been at dinner. So Miss
Arnott excused herself at what she considered to be the earliest possible
moment and went to bed.
At least she went as far as her bedroom. She found Evans awaiting her.
A bed was made up close to her own, all arrangements were arranged to
keep watch and ward over her through the night.
"Evans," she announced, "I've come to bed."
"Have you, miss? It's early--that is, for you."
"If you'd spent the sort of evening I have you'd have come early to
bed. Evans, I want to tell you something."
"Yes, miss; what might it be?"
"Don't you ever take it for granted that, because a man's clever at one
thing, he's clever, or the least bit of good, at anything else."
"I'm afraid, miss, that I don't understand."
"Then I'll make you understand, before I've done with you; you're not
stupid. I feel that before I even try to close my eyes I must talk to
some rational being, so I'll talk to you."
"Thank you, miss."
"There's a Mr Gilbert downstairs."
"Yes, miss, I've heard of him."
"He's supposed to be a famous criminal lawyer; perhaps you've heard
that too. I'm told that he's the cleverest living, and, I daresay, he's
smart enough in his own line. But out of it--such clumsiness, such
stupidity, such conceit, such manners--oh, Evans! I once heard a
specialist compared to a dog which is kept chained to its kennel;
within the limits of its chain that dog has an amazing knowledge of the
world. I suppose Mr Gilbert is a specialist. He knows everything within
the limits of his chain. But, though he mayn't be aware of it--and he
isn't--his chain is there! And now, Evans, having told you what I
wished to tell you, I'm going to bed."
But Miss Arnott did not go to bed just then. She seemed unusually wide
awake. It was obvious that, if any sound data were to be obtained on
the subject of her alleged somnambulistic habits, it was necessary,
first of all, that she should go to sleep; but it would not be much
good her getting into bed if she felt indisposed for slumber.
"The only thing, Evans, of which I'm afraid is that, if we're not
careful, you'll fall asleep first, and that then, so soon as you're
asleep, I shall start off walking through the woods. It'll make both of
us look so silly if I do."
"No fear of that, miss. I can keep awake as long as anyone, and when I
am asleep the fall of a feather is enough to wake me."
"The fall of a feather? Evans! I don't believe you could hear a feather
falling, even if you were wide awake."
"Well, miss, you know what I mean. I mean that I'm a light sleeper. I
shall lock the doors when we're both of us in bed, and I shall put the
keys underneath my pillow. No one will take those keys from under my
pillow without my knowing it, I promise you that, no matter how
light-fingered they may be."
"I see. I'm to be a prisoner. It doesn't sound quite nice; but I
suppose I'll have to put up with it. If you were to catch me walking in
my sleep how dreadful it would be."
"I sha'n't do it. I don't believe you ever have walked in your sleep,
and I don't believe you ever will."
Later it was arranged that the young lady should undress, take a book
with her to bed, and try to read herself to sleep. Then it became a
question of the book.
"I know the very book that would be bound to send me to sleep in a
couple of ticks, even in the middle of the day. I've tested its
soporific powers already. Three times I've tried to get through the
first chapter, and each time I've been asleep before I reached the end.
It is a book! I bought it a week or two ago. I don't know why. I wasn't
in want of a sleeping powder then. Where did I put it? Oh, I remember;
I lent it to Mrs Plummer. She seemed to want something to doze over, so
I suggested that would be just the thing. Evans, do you think Mrs
Plummer is asleep yet?"
"I don't know, miss. I believe she's pretty late. I'll go and see."
"No, I'll go and see. Then I can explain to her what it is I want, and
just what I want it for. You stay here; I sha'n't be a minute."
Miss Arnott went up to Mrs Plummer's bedroom. It was called the
tower-room. On one side of the house--which was an architectural
freak--was an eight-sided tower. Although built into the main building
it rose high above it. Near the top was a clock with three faces. On the
roof was a flagstaff which served to inform the neighbourhood if the
family was or was not at home.
Miss Arnott was wont to declare that the tower-rooms were the
pleasantest in the house. In proof of it the one which she had selected
to be her own special apartment lay immediately under that in which Mrs
Plummer slept. It had two separate approaches. The corridor in which
was Miss Arnott's sleeping-chamber had, at one end--the one farthest
from her--a short flight of stairs which ascended to a landing on to
which opened one of Mrs Plummer's bedroom doors. On the opposite side
of the room was another door which gave access to what was, to all
intents and purposes, a service staircase. Miss Arnott, passing along
the corridor and up the eight or nine steps, rapped at the panel once,
twice, and then again. As still no one answered she tried the handle,
thinking that if it was locked the probabilities were that Mrs Plummer
was in bed and fast asleep. But, instead of being locked, it opened
readily at her touch. The fact that the electric lights were all on
seemed to suggest that, at anyrate, the lady was not asleep in bed.
"Mrs Plummer!" she exclaimed, standing in the partly opened doorway.
No reply. Opening the door wider she entered the room. It was empty.
But there was that about the appearance of the chamber which conveyed
the impression that quite recently, within the last two or three
minutes, it had had an occupant. Clothes were thrown down anywhere, as
if their wearer had doffed them in a hurry. Miss Arnott, who had had a
notion that Mrs Plummer was the soul of neatness, was surprised and
even tickled by the evidence of untidiness which met her on every hand.
Not only were articles of wearing apparel scattered everywhere, but the
whole apartment was in a state of odd disarray; at one part the carpet
was turned quite back. As she looked about her, Miss Arnott smiled.
"What can Mrs Plummer have been doing? She appears to have been
preparing for a flitting. And where can she be? She seems to have
undressed. Those are her clothes, and there's the dress she wore at
dinner. She can't be in such a state of _deshabille_ as those things
seem to suggest; and yet--I don't think I'll wait till she comes back.
I wonder if she's left that book lying about. If I can find it I'll
sneak off at once, and tell her all about it in the morning."
On a table in the centre was piled up a heterogeneous and disorderly
collection of odds and ends. Miss Arnott glanced at it to see if among
the miscellanea was the volume she was seeking. She saw that a book
which looked like it was lying underneath what seemed to be a number of
old letters. She picked it up, removing the letters to enable her to do
so. One or two of the papers fell on to the floor. She stooped to pick
them up. The first was a photograph. Her eyes lighted on it, half
unwittingly; but, having lighted on it, they stayed.
The room seemed all at once to be turning round her. She was conscious
of a sense of vertigo, as if suddenly something had happened to her
brain. For some seconds she was obsessed by a conviction that she was
the victim of an optical delusion, that what she supposed herself to
see was, in reality, a phantom of her imagination. How long this
condition continued she never knew. But it was only after a perceptible
interval of time that she began to comprehend that she deluded herself
by supposing herself to be under a delusion, that what she had only
imagined she saw, she actually did see. It was the sudden shock which
had caused that feeling of curious confusion. The thing was plain
enough.
She was holding in her hand the photograph of her husband--Robert
Champion. The more she looked at it the stronger the conviction became.
There was not a doubt of it. The portrait had probably been taken some
years ago, when the man was younger; but that it was her husband she
was certain. She was hardly likely to make a mistake on a point of that
kind. But, in the name of all that was inexplicable, what was Robert
Champion's photograph doing here?
She glanced at another of the articles she had dropped. It was another
portrait of the same man, apparently taken a little later. There was a
third--a smaller one. In it he wore a yachting cap. Although he was no
yachting man--so far as she knew he had never been on the sea in his
life; but it was within her knowledge that it was a fashion in headgear
for which he had had, as she deemed, a most undesirable predilection.
He had worn one when he had taken her for their honeymoon to Margate;
anyone looking less like a seaman than he did in it, she thought she
had never seen. In a fourth photograph Robert Champion was sitting in a
chair with his arm round Mrs Plummer's waist; she standing at his side
with her hand upon his shoulder. She was obviously many years older
than the man in the chair; but she could not have looked more pleased,
either with herself or with him.
What did it mean?--what could it mean?--those photographs in Mrs
Plummer's room?
Returning to the first at which she had glanced, the girl saw that the
name was scrawled across the right-hand bottom corner, which had
hitherto been hidden by her thumb, in a hand which set her heart
palpitating with a sense of startled recognition. "Douglas Plummer."
The name was unmistakable in its big, bombastic letters; but what did
he mean by scrawling "Douglas Plummer" at the bottom of his own
photograph? She suddenly remembered having seen a visiting card of Mrs
Plummer's on which her name had been inscribed "Mrs Douglas Plummer."
What did it mean?
On the back of the photograph in which the man and the woman had been
taken together she found that there was written--she knew the writing
to be Mrs Plummer's--"Taken on our honeymoon."
When she saw that Miss Arnott rose to her feet--for the first time
since she had stooped to pick up the odds and ends which she had
dropped--and laughed. It was so very funny. Again she closely examined
the pair in the picture and the sentence on the back. There could be no
doubt as to their identity; none as to what the sentence said, nor as
to the hand by which it had been penned. But on whose honeymoon had it
been taken? What did it mean?
There came to her a feeling that this was a matter in which inquiries
should be made at once. She had forgotten altogether the errand which
had brought her there; she was overlooking everything in the strength
of her desire to learn, in the shortest possible space of time, what
was the inner meaning of these photographs which she was holding in her
hand. She saw the letters which she had disturbed to get at the book
beneath. In the light of the new discoveries she had made, even at that
distance she recognised the caligraphy in which they were written. She
snatched them up; they were in a bundle, tied round with a piece of
pink baby ribbon. To use a sufficiently-expressive figure of speech,
the opening line of the first "hit her in the face,"--"My darling
Agatha."
Agatha? That was Mrs Plummer's Christian name.
She thrust at a letter in the centre. It began--"My precious wife."
His precious wife? Whose wife? Douglas Plummer's?--Robert
Champion's?--Whose? What did it mean?
As she assailed herself with the question--for at least the dozenth
time--to which she seemed unlikely to find an answer, a fresh impulse
caused her to look again about the room--to be immediately struck by
something which had previously escaped her observation. Surely the bed
had been slept in. It was rumpled; the pillow had been lain on; the
bedclothes were turned back, as if someone had slipped from between the
sheets and left them so. What did that mean?
While the old inquiry was assuming this fresh shape, and all sorts of
fantastic doubts seemed to have had sudden birth and to be pressing on
her from every side, the door on the other side of the room was opened,
and Mrs Plummer entered.
CHAPTER XXXVI
OUT OF SLEEP
Miss Arnott was so astounded at the appearance which Mrs Plummer
presented that, in her bewilderment, she was tongue-tied. What, in the
absence of tonsorial additions--which the girl had already noted were
set out in somewhat gruesome fashion on the dressing-table--were shown
to be her scanty locks, straggled loose about her neck. The garment in
which her whole person was enveloped was one which Miss Arnott had
never seen before, and, woman-like, she had a very shrewd knowledge of
the contents of her companion's wardrobe. More than anything else it
resembled an unusually voluminous bath-sheet, seeming to have been made
of what had originally been white Turkish towelling. The whiteness,
however, had long since disappeared. It was not only in an
indescribable state of filth, but also of rags and tatters. How any of
it continued to hang together was a mystery; there was certainly not a
square foot of it without a rent. On her feet she wore what seemed to
be the remnants of a pair of bedroom slippers. So far as Miss Arnott
was able to discern the only other garment she had on was her
nightdress. In this attire she appeared to have been in some singular
places. She was all dusty and torn; attached to her here and there were
scraps of greenery: here a frond of bracken, there the needle of a
pine.
"Mrs Plummer," cried Miss Arnott, when she had in part realised the
extraordinary spectacle which her companion offered, "wherever have you
been?"
But Mrs Plummer did not answer, at first to the girl's increased
amazement; then it all burst on her in a flash--Mrs Plummer was asleep!
It seemed incredible; yet it was so. Her eyes were wide open; yet it
only needed a second or two to make it clear to Miss Arnott that they
did not see her. They appeared to have the faculty of only seeing those
objects which were presented to their owner's inner vision. Miss Arnott
was not present at the moment in Mrs Plummer's thoughts, therefore she
remained invisible to her staring eyes. It was with a curious feeling
of having come into unlooked-for contact with something uncanny that
the girl perceived this was so. Motionless, fascinated, hardly
breathing, she waited and watched for what the other was about to do.
Mrs Plummer closed the door behind her carefully--with an odd
carefulness. Coming a few steps into the room she stopped. Looking
about her with what the girl felt was almost an agony of eagerness, it
seemed strange that she should not see her; her eyes travelled over her
more than once. Then she drew a long breath like a sigh. Raising both
hands to her forehead she brushed back the thin wisps of her faded
hair. It was with a feeling which was half-shame, half-awe that the
girl heard her break into speech. It was as though she were intruding
herself into the other's very soul, and as if the woman was speaking
with a voice out of the grave.
Indeed, there was an eerie quality about the actual utterance--a
lifelessness, a monotony, an absence of light and shade. She spoke as
she might fancy an automaton would speak--all on the same note. The
words came fluently enough, the sentences seemed disconnected.
"I couldn't find it. I can't think where I put it. It's so strange. I
just dropped it like that." Mrs Plummer made a sudden forward movement
with her extended right hand, then went through the motion of dropping
something from it on to the floor. With sensations which in their
instant, increasing horror altogether transcended anything which had
gone before, the girl began to understand. "I can't quite remember. I
don't think I picked it up again. I feel sure I didn't bring it home. I
should have found it if I had. I have looked everywhere--everywhere."
The sightless eyes looked here and there, anxiously, restlessly,
searchingly, so that the girl began to read the riddle of the
disordered room. "I must find it. I shall never rest until I do--never!
I must know where it is! The knife! the knife!"
As the unconscious woman repeated for the second time the last two
words, a sudden inspiration flashed through the listener's brain; it
possessed her with such violence that, for some seconds, it set her
trembling from head to foot. When the first shock its advent had
occasioned had passed away, the tremblement was followed by a calm
which was perhaps its natural sequence.
Without waiting to hear or see more she passed out of the room with
rapid, even steps along the corridor to her own chamber. There she was
greeted by Evans.
"You've been a long time, miss. I suppose Mrs Plummer couldn't find the
book you wanted." Then she was evidently struck by the peculiarity of
the girl's manner. "What has happened? I hope there's nothing else
that's wrong. Miss Arnott, what are you doing there?"
The girl was unlocking the wardrobe drawer in which she had that
afternoon replaced Hugh Morice's knife. She took the weapon out.
"Evans, come with me! I'll show you who killed that man in Cooper's
Spinney! Be quick!"
She took the lady's-maid by the wrist and half-led, half-dragged her
from the room. Evans looked at her with frightened face, plainly in
doubt as to whether her young mistress had not all at once gone mad.
But she offered no resistance. On the landing outside the door they
encountered Mr Stacey and Mr Gilbert, who were apparently just coming
up to bed. Miss Arnott hailed them.
"Mr Stacey! Mr Gilbert! you wish to know who it was who murdered Robert
Champion? Come with me quickly. You shall see!"
They stared at the knife which was in her hand, at the strange
expression which was on her face. She did not wait for them to speak.
She moved swiftly towards the staircase which led to the tower-room.
She loosed her attendant's wrist. But Evans showed no desire to take
advantage of her freedom, she pressed closely on her mistress's heels.
Mr Gilbert, rapid in decision, went after the two women without even a
moment's hesitation. Mr Stacey, of slower habit, paused a moment before
he moved, then, obviously puzzled, he followed the others.
When the girl returned Mrs Plummer was bending over a drawer, tossing
its contents in seemingly haphazard fashion on to the carpet.
"I must find it! I must find it!" she kept repeating to herself.
Miss Arnott called to her, not loudly but clearly,--
"Mrs Plummer!" But Mrs Plummer paid no heed. She continued to mutter
and to turn out the contents of the drawer. The girl moved to her
across the floor, speaking to her again by name. "Mrs Plummer, what is
it you are looking for? Is it this knife?"
Plainly the somnambulist was vaguely conscious that a voice had spoken.
Ceasing to rifle the drawer she remained motionless, holding her head a
little on one side, as if she listened. Then she spoke again; but
whether in answer to the question which had been put to her or to
herself, was not clear.
"The knife! I want to find the knife."
"What knife is it you are looking for? Is it the knife with which you
killed your husband in the wood?"
The woman shuddered. It seemed as if something had reached her
consciousness. She said, as if echoing the other's words,--
"My husband in the wood."
The girl became aware that Day, the butler, had entered through the
door on the other side, wearing his hat, as if he had just come out of
the open air, and that he was accompanied by Granger in his uniform,
and by a man whom she did not recognise, but who, as a matter of fact,
was Nunn, the detective. She knew that, behind her, was Evans with Mr
Stacey and Mr Gilbert. She understood that, for her purpose, the
audience could scarcely have been better chosen.
She raised her voice a little, laying stress upon her words.
"Mrs Plummer, here is the knife for which you are looking."
With one hand she held out to her the handle of the knife, with the
other she touched her on the shoulder. There could be no mistake this
time as to whether or not the girl had penetrated to the sleep-walker's
consciousness. They could all of them see that a shiver went all over
her, almost as if she had been struck by palsy. She staggered a little
backwards, putting out her arms in front of her as if to ward off some
threatening danger. There came another fit of shivering, and then they
knew she was awake--awake but speechless. She stared at the girl in
front of her as if she were some dreadful ghost. Relentless, still set
upon her purpose, Miss Arnott went nearer to her.
"Mrs Plummer, here is the knife for which you have been looking--the
knife with which you killed your husband--Douglas Plummer--in the
wood."
The woman stared at the knife, then at the girl, then about her. She
saw the witnesses who stood in either doorway. Probably comprehension
came to her bewildered intellect, which was not yet wide awake. She
realised that her secret was no longer her own, since she had been her
own betrayer, that the Philistines were upon her. She snatched at the
knife which the girl still held out, and, before they guessed at her
intention, had buried it almost to the hilt in her own breast.
CHAPTER XXXVII
WHAT WAS WRITTEN
She expired that same night without having uttered an intelligible
word. In a sense her end could hardly have been called an unfortunate
one. It is certain that, had she lived, she would have had a bad time,
even if she had escaped the gallows. She had left behind her the whole
story, set forth in black and white by her own hand. It was a
sufficiently unhappy one. It is not impossible that, having heard it, a
jury would have recommended her to mercy. In which case the capital
sentence would probably have been commuted to one of penal servitude
for life. It is a moot question whether it is not better to hang
outright rather than endure a living death within the four walls of a
gaol.
The story of her life as recounted by herself--and there is no reason
to doubt the substantial accuracy of her narrative--was this.
Agatha Linfield, a spinster past her first prime, possessed of some
means of her own, met at a Brighton boarding-house a young man who
called himself Douglas Plummer. Possibly believing her to be better off
than she was he paid her attentions from the first moment of their
meeting. Within a month he had married her. In much less than another
month she had discovered what kind of a man she had for a husband. He
inflicted on her all sorts of indignities, subjecting her even to
physical violence, plundering her of all the money he could. When he
had brought her to the verge of beggary he fell into the hands of the
police; as he was destined to do again at a later period in his career.
Hardly had he been sentenced to a term of imprisonment than his wife
became the recipient of another small legacy, on the strength of which
she went abroad, and, by its means, managed to live. Her own desire was
never to see or hear of her husband again. She even went so far as to
inform her relatives that he had died and left her a sorrowing widow.
He, probably having wearied of a woman so much older than himself and
knowing nothing of the improvement in her fortunes, seems to have made
no effort on his release to ascertain her whereabouts. In short, for
some years each vanished out of the other's existence.
On the night of the Saturday on which they returned from abroad, when
Miss Arnott went for her woodland stroll, Mrs Plummer, whose curiosity
had been previously aroused as to the true inwardness of her
proceedings, after an interval followed to see what possible inducement
there could be to cause her, after a long and fatiguing journey, to
immediately wander abroad at such an uncanonical hour. She was severely
punished for her inquisitiveness. Exactly what took place her diary did
not make clear; details were omitted, the one prominent happening was
alone narrated in what, under the circumstances, were not unnaturally
vague and somewhat confused terms. She came upon the man who was known
to Miss Arnott as Robert Champion, and to her as Douglas Plummer, all
in a moment, without having had, the second before, the faintest
suspicion that he was within a hundred miles. She had hoped--had
tried to convince herself--that he was dead. The sight of him, as,
without the least warning he rose at her--like some spectre of a
nightmare--from under the beech tree, seems to have bereft her for a
moment of her senses. He must have been still writhing from the agony
inflicted by Jim Baker's "peppering" so that he himself was scarcely
sane. He had in his hand Hugh Morice's knife, which he had picked up,
almost by inadvertence, as he staggered to his feet at the sound of
someone coming. It may be that he supposed the newcomer to have been
the person who had already shot at him, that his intention was to defend
himself with the accidentally-discovered weapon from further violence.
She only saw the knife. She had set down in her diary that he was waiting
there to kill her; which, on the face of it, had been written with an
imperfect knowledge of the facts. As he lurched towards her--probably
as much taken by surprise as she was--she imagined he meant to strike
her with the knife. Scarcely knowing what she did she snatched it from
him and killed him on the spot.
It was at that moment she was seen by Hugh Morice and Jim Baker, both
of whom took her for Miss Arnott. Instantly realising what it was
that she had done she fled panic-stricken into the woods
with--presently--Hugh Morice dashing wildly after her. Miss Arnott saw
Hugh Morice, and him only, and drew her own erroneous conclusions.
Mrs Plummer gained entrance to the house by climbing through a tall
casement window, which chanced to have been left unfastened, and which
opened into a passage near the foot of the service staircase.
Afterwards, fast asleep, she frequently got in and out of the house
through that same window. Unknown to her the discreet Mr Day saw her
entry. She had still very far from regained full control of her sober
senses. So soon as she was in, seized, apparently, by a sudden
recollection, she exclaimed, turning again to the casement, "The knife!
the knife! I've left the knife!"
Mr Day, who had no particular affection for the lady, heard the words,
saw the condition she was in, and decided, there and then, that she had
recently been involved in some extremely singular business. Until,
shortly afterwards, he admitted her himself, he was inclined to fear
that she had killed his young mistress.
The impression Mrs Plummer had made upon his mind never left him.
Spying on her at moments when she little suspected espionage, his
doubts gained force as time went on, until they amounted to conviction.
When the body was found in the spinney, although he had little evidence
to go upon, he had, personally, no doubt as to who was the guilty
party. It was because he was divided between the knowledge that it was
his duty to tell all he knew and his feelings that it would be
derogatory to his dignity and repellent to his most cherished instincts
to be mixed up with anything which had to do with the police, that he
was desirous of quitting Miss Arnott's service ere he was dragged,
willy-nilly, into an uncomfortably prominent position in a most
unpleasant affair.
Nothing which afterwards transpired caused him at any time, to doubt,
that, whenever he chose, he could lay his hand upon the criminal. He
alone, of all the persons in the drama, had an inkling of the truth.
CHAPTER XXXVIII
MISS ARNOTT'S MARRIAGE
The charge against Jim Baker was withdrawn at the earliest possible
moment. Hugh Morice was released that night from the confinement which
he had himself invited. When Mr Nunn asked what had made him accuse
himself of a crime of which he was altogether innocent he laughed.
"Since you yourself were about to charge one innocent person, you
should be the last person in the world to object to my charging
another."
The next day he went to Exham Park. There he saw its mistress. By
degrees the whole tale was told. It took a long time in the telling.
Part of it was told in the house, and then, as it still seemed
unfinished, he went out with her upon her motor car. The rest of it was
told upon the way.
"It seems," she pointed out, "that, as the wretch married that poor
woman before he ever saw me, I never was his wife at all. I don't know
if it's better that way or worse."
"Better."
"I'm not so sure."
"I am. Because, when you become my wife--"
She put the car on to the fourth speed. There was a long, straight,
level road and not a soul in sight. They moved!
"You'll get into trouble if you don't look out."
"I'm not afraid."
"I was about to remark that when you become my wife--"
"I wish you wouldn't talk to me when we're going at this rate. You know
it's dangerous."
"Get down on to the first speed at once." She did slow a trifle, which
enabled him to speak without unduly imperilling their safety. "I was
saying that when you become my wife I shall marry you as Miss
Arnott--Violet Arnott, spinster. That will be your precise description.
I prefer it that way, if you don't mind."
Whether she minded or not that was what he did. No one thereabouts had
the dimmest notion what was her actual relation to the man who had met
the fate which, after all, was not wholly undeserved. So that the great
and glorious festival, which will not be forgotten in that countryside
for many a day, is always spoken of by everyone who partook of the
bride and bridegroom's splendid hospitality as "Miss Arnott's
marriage."
It was indeed one of those marriages of which we may assuredly affirm,
that those whom God hath joined no man shall put asunder.
THE END
EDINBURGH
COLSTON AND COY. LIMITED
PRINTERS