Superintendent Salt
October 4. 2.35 P.M.
Yet the two men from New Aidenn had come up the Vale through that
ruinous rain and wind. From the corner library window I myself had
dimly seen them plodding up the leaf-stained drive against the blast,
and had been at the cat-head entrance when Blenkinson admitted them,
grotesquely dishevelled by the storm. The very tall one, whose hat was
gone and who carried a bulgy black instrument-case, was Doctor
Niblett, Coroner as well. Superintendent Salt, a man of more pulp, and
built on the underslung plan, wore a necklet of grizzly beard and had
short curly hair, like a Roman Emperor’s. I at once christened him
Peggotty, “a hairy man with a good-natured face.”
Quite a little lake had sluiced and oozed from their coats and shoes
before Pendleton came rushing downstairs from his wife’s room.
“You got here?”
“I expect so,” answered Superintendent Salt in the indecisive way that
I have learned is universal with native Radnorites. “I had my
neighbour the Coroner come along, Doctor Niblett here.”
“Oh, yes: glad you did. We’ve met, haven’t we, Doctor? Gad, you look
war-shot, both of you. Is the storm so bad?”
“We’ve tramped it from beyond the bridge or thereabouts.”
“Tramped it!”
“Half the bridge was down, Mr. Pendleton. We were forced to leave the
car on t’other side and make a dash over afoot. The way it looked, Mr.
Pendleton, with the water risin’ so, I doubt you’ve any bridge at all
there by now. The stream’s fair ragin’. And you say there’s been a
killin’ here or something? A guest of yours, maybe? Shockin’.”
“What a day!” cried Crofts fervently. “This way, gentlemen.” But in
the midst of the portrait-corridor, he paused. “This is murder, and a
damned mysterious murder. There’s been a landslide up the Vale, and
that path must be blocked. Did you pass anyone going south as you came
along?”
Peggotty, or perhaps I had better let his name go as Salt, responded,
“We did not, and we have a witness who was by the bridge since before
five o’clock to show that nobody had been across either way.”
“What kind of a witness?”
“Reliable. The Coroner and I have known him for these a-many years.”
From aloft Doctor Niblett nodded grave agreement. “Road-mender, he is.
Shelterin’ under a tree from the rain. Had been at work just beyond
the bridge, so he couldn’t have missed seein’.”
Elation seemed to make a dark glow in Pendleton’s soul. “Then he’s
trapped, the dog! That is, if you—did you tell this witness to
watch—?”
“I think,” said Superintendent Salt, “that we might be havin’ a look
at the body.”
“Er, yes. Yes, of course—I was taking you. I’ll order a good fire lit
at once to help you dry.”
I followed Crofts with the overshadowing Coroner and the plump
Superintendent into the Hall of the Moth. Doctor Aire and Lord Ludlow
were waiting there; the body of Sean Cosgrove lay on the couch with
the _Brocade de Lyons_ upholstering, and across it was stretched a
decorative leather skin plucked down from the wall.
Introductions were curt. Doctor Aire pulled off the cover, revealing
the corpse. The limbs had been adjusted carefully. _Rigor mortis_, of
course, had not yet supervened, and the features, save for the laxity
of the jaw, had much the expression I should have expected to see in
untroubled sleep. First Doctor Niblett bent for his swift, searching
preliminary examination, turning the dead man’s head in his long,
large-jointed fingers. The Superintendent followed in more deliberate
manner, while Niblett went gratefully to the climbing fire.
It appeared that Salt is not one of those master-minds who require a
vacuum in order to get results. He actually began to function in our
presence! For at length, rising ponderously from his knees, upon which
he had been scrutinizing the soles of the dead man’s shoes, he said,
“See here, where’s the weapon?”
Crofts shrugged his shoulders, having a bit of a flea in his ear, and
Doctor Aire answered, “We haven’t the slightest idea. There’s a pretty
muddle about weapons. We’ve weapons to burn, but none of them appears
to be connected with the case.”
“We’ll go into that later, then. You haven’t disturbed the contents of
his clothing, I see.”
“Certainly not.”
Methodically Salt removed what Cosgrove carried on him when he died,
turning out each pocket when empty and examining the inside. Besides
the loose coins, watch and chain, and wallet, there were a number of
hand-written and printed sheets in several pockets.
Ludlow singled out one slip from the heap and called Salt’s attention
to it. “This thing,” he said, “was the subject of some acrimony on the
part of the deceased last night. He accused me, in fact, of pilfering
it.”
“What’s that?”
“Perhaps,” continued the wily Ludlow, “I had picked the sheet up
somewhere, absent-mindedly, I suppose, and forgotten about it. It was
rather a tense day. But Mr. Cosgrove saw fit to declare that I had
rifled his correspondence—he claimed it as his, at any rate. Can you
make any more of it than I?”
“What do you make of it?” asked Salt, who had been reading it the
while.
I fancied a little spite in his Lordship’s tone. “In the light of
events, nothing. Suppose you show it to my friends here. One of them
may suggest some interpretation that will throw light.”
Crofts was obviously bursting to get a look at the screed, and I
myself was glad of the opportunity to see what else it contained
besides the singular remark about “the mail.” It commenced without
indication to whom addressed:
“Dear Sir,
I suppose that I shall see you before long, and we may discuss the
topic conveniently.
I must inform you, however, that my principals leave me no option in
the matter. I hope you will realize your untenable and actually
perilous position; we do not want your brains scattered about. On
the evening of my arrival, I shall expect a communication from you,
stating whether you will be amenable. Suppose you leave it in the
mail—you know where; I’ll come and get it.”
I studied the signature for some time before I made it out:
“Lochinvar.”
“And you say that you have no idea what this means?” asked Salt.
“I wish I did!” responded Lord Ludlow; then, looking sorry he had
spoken with such feeling, he added, “I mean that if I did, I might see
some reason for Mr. Cosgrove’s bursting into a tirade against me.”
“Oh, yes?” remarked the Superintendent dryly, and turned to Crofts. “I
suppose you couldn’t tell when this was delivered?”
“Not while he was here,” returned Crofts promptly. “The only delivery
is at eleven, and I sort the mail myself. Cosgrove never got any.”
“Well, I suppose we must show it to the others in the house and see if
anyone recognizes the hand.” Salt stood pondering a moment, then
braced with decision. “And now I think that I’ve heard enough puzzling
odds and ends about this crime. I want somebody to tell the story of
it right straight through, so I’ll get the tit-bits in their proper
places.”
This was clearly for Crofts, and I did not envy him. I remember that
the rest of us were going to depart when Salt retained us with a
gesture. So we were part of the audience while our host, with much
nervousness and with some little assistance from the rest of us, told
who were in the House, and what, in the main, had happened until the
time Blenkinson had rung up the New Aidenn police station at
five-twenty-two.
Only once did the Superintendent put in a word. Crofts had been
setting forth as well as he could our bodily dispositions after
we had left the Hall of the Moth. “So none of us could have been
near him, and there’s no trace of anyone else. And there you are,
Superintendent.”
“Oh—ah—um,” remarked Salt, his eyes moving about the walls. “Secret
passages?”
“None,” snapped Crofts.
“Go on, sir, please. This is very interestin’.”
When our host had finished, Salt emitted a noise both gruff and
complacent.
“A pretty job,” he observed. He cast a look about the room, as if the
atmosphere of the Hall of the Moth impressed him for the first time,
and he gave a conscious shiver. I saw his eyebrows twitch for a moment
when his glance fell on the iniquitous portrait of Sir Pharamond on
high. “A pretty job and will take a lot of doin’, I expect.”
“Do you want to see the rest of us now?” asked Crofts. “The party is
waiting in the conservatory.” He indicated the door with a nod.
The Superintendent regarded the corpse with lack-lustre eye, and
pulled his beard reflectively. “N-no, not to-night, if you please. Not
now, thanks. I’ll take ’em all in the morning. As a plain fact,
there’s too much blood-and-thunder in the atmosphere to-night. Keeps
people from thinkin’ straight. And we can’t catch the murderer
to-night, anyhow.” He paused a moment, blinking thoughtfully again; he
was given to these interludes of cogitation. “But see here; we may
clear this matter up.” He showed the “Lochinvar” letter. “I’ll just
pass this round and see if anyone twigs the writin’.”
“This way, then,” ushered Crofts. He preceded us into the conservatory
with its great windows, where the company was sitting in little
breathless groups of twos and threes.
Only Maryvale lingered alone, beyond the grand piano, his fingers
sometimes very lightly pressing the keys in chords of some neutral
mode, neither major nor minor.
Salt explained that he intended to ask but one question just then,
alleging anxiety lest anyone should be overwrought in the situation of
time, circumstance, and weather. He gave an uneasy look at Maryvale,
whose chords seemed to deepen the sombreness of the rain-beleaguered
room. The “Lochinvar” letter went the rounds, until it reached Eve
Bartholomew beneath a large potted plant whose leaves were like
donkeys’ ears. She gave a pleased cry, then a gasp.
“Sir Brooke wrote this! . . . But what does it mean!”
“Never mind what it means, Ma’am,” said Salt. “And who’s Sir Brooke?
Not here, is he?”
“Don’t you remember?” Crofts asked. “He’s the missing—”
“Idiot,” murmured Ludlow, and went on to say: “I haven’t known our
infirm absentee as long as this good lady, and his writing is
unfamiliar to me, but it surprises me greatly that he signs himself
‘Lochinvar.’ Curiously unfit I should say. Madam, was that one of his
baptismal names?”
Mrs. Bartholomew bridled. “I have no doubt Sir Brooke had good reason
to sign himself any way he thought proper.”
“I have no doubt either,” acquiesced Ludlow, and added the remark,
“Don Quixote.”
“Haven’t eaten yet?” Salt asked.
Our host ejaculated, “Hardly!”
“Suggest you do, then, and everybody try to get some rest. All doors
locked, windows latched. No danger now, of course—only never give
temptation.”
“This way, then, if you’re for food,” bade Crofts, and led the way
into the dining-room, where he himself was to make a wretched job of
eating.
The conservatory emptied slowly. A few people followed Crofts; perhaps
two-thirds of men make for the stairs and the cold comfort of their
bedrooms. At the bottom of the well I drew Miss Lebetwood apart from
Mrs. Belvoir. Then, I confess, I felt ashamed, and spoke awkwardly.
“Miss Lebetwood, forgive me if I—that is, I hope you won’t mind—if you
don’t want to answer—”
Her voice was quite controlled. “Yes, what’s the matter, Mr.
Bannerlee?”
“It may not have anything to do with this awful—”
“What do you want to know, Mr. Bannerlee?”
“You remember telling how Miss Mertoun—before she wandered out last
night—how she said something about its being ‘his music’? Well—”
Paula Lebetwood winced and said, “You want to know what that meant?”
“It’s rather stuck in my mind, you see—and I thought—”
“You’re not a detective, are you, Mr. Bannerlee?”
“Why—no—I—”
“Your name _is_ Bannerlee, isn’t it?”
“Certainly, Miss Lebetwood.”
“Forgive me; it was rude. But I am so tired—and your question—”
“Please don’t—”
She interrupted, but her hesitation had become as great as mine, and
there was certain displeasure in her tone. “Excuse me, I beg you, but
I—don’t—think I want to tell you, Mr. Bannerlee. I can hardly call it
my—secret, you know.”
“Pray excuse _me_ for asking. But you may be called on to tell
to-morrow. It will be painful, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, I hope I won’t have to. Really—really, it has nothing to do
with—”
She fled up the stairs, and I, full of musing, went into the
dinner-room and tried to eat. But it was no use then. I excused myself
from the group about the table (pale, they were, as if Death itself
had taken a seat at the board) and slowly proceeded to my
second-storey room.
I wrote in this diary, and while I wrote I heard slight sounds below.
Not until a long time later, when hunger had at last made itself felt
and I hoped to burgle the larder, and stole down near midnight—not
until then did I realize the full import of those sounds. While I
passed through the corridor to reach the dining-room door and thence
the kitchen, the far entrance of the Hall opened, and an unusual glare
of light burst forth. Doctor Aire stood on the threshold. He wore a
cook’s white apron tied beneath his arms and pinned to his trousers
below the knees. He was rubbing his fingers on the edge of it. Using
the instruments of the tall, wordless Coroner, he had just performed
the superfluous but required necropsy upon the body of Sean Cosgrove.
“The blow on the neck did it; nothing else the matter. He had a whale
of a constitution.”
Aire, too, was hungry. But it almost robbed me of my appetite again to
see him eating with those gruesome fingers.
As the Superintendent foresaw, it was well that the _post-mortem_ was
quickly done. After all, we were cut off from escape. The bridge was
wholly gone; so we had already learned by telephone. Burial of the
murdered man somewhere in the Vale might yet be necessary. The
King-maker entombed alone, uncoffined, far removed from the odour of
sanctity!
Aire, Salt, and I came up together at half-past eleven. Poor Crofts
had been troubled enough about finding places for the two officials
overnight. On the first floor the rooms were filled: the Belvoirs,
Oxford, and Miss Lebetwood take up the left portion of the storey not
part of the upper reaches of the Hall, and on the other side the
Pendletons, the Aires, Bob Cullen, Ludlow, and Miss Mertoun have
rooms. Above these the only habitable chambers are those of Maryvale,
Mrs. Bartholomew, and Lib at the south end, and mine up the passage.
Between my room and Lib’s are two chambers filled with stores of
oddments anything up to a century old. The great rooms across the
passage from me are also depositories and magazines of much that has
been undisturbed since long before Crofts bought Highglen House.
I knew that our host took Salt and Niblett over the House in a sort of
preliminary inspection about ten o’clock, for they arrived finally at
my antique domicile. Crofts, thoughtless oaf, had given me no warning,
and I was nearly caught in the exercise of pen and ink. I contrived,
however, to thrust my writing-book underneath the table and to snatch
a piece of notepaper. I was inditing a letter when the Superintendent
looked in.
Then they stood in the doorway and discussed sleeping-quarters.
“Disadvantages every way,” complained Crofts, “whether you try the
ground floor, the first, or the second—but of course I forgot—there’s
no place available on the first.”
“The first floor will do us very well,” said Salt.
“Eh? What do you mean? You surely don’t mean—”
“Mr. Cosgrove’s room? Yes. Dr. Niblett and I will divide the sleepin’
there and beside the corpse.”
Cosgrove had occupied the east-projecting room furthest north in the
older body of the House. Miss Mertoun’s, beyond it, is above the
newly-built conservatory, and since, as I may have said, the
conservatory does not extend the entire width of the house, Cosgrove’s
room juts out, making a notched corner at that end of the mansion.
“But surely—”
“I’m leavin’ my superstitions out with my boots to-night,” observed
Salt solemnly.
“But why not carry the body up there? I’ll have a bed made—”
Crofts gave it up after a while, though I am sure that not for a
king’s ransom would he himself last night have occupied the narrow
chamber that had been the Irishman’s. The voices became faint down the
passage; the last I heard was Salt’s diminishing assurance.
“I took the liberty of usin’ your telephone. I gave the Chief
Constable a stiff surprise. There are two of the county police—”