"Then it's a complete mystery. He was found by Harris, the keeper, last
night?"
"Yes, sir," answered Booth. "He'd been dead then some hours. Dr
Richards says it's murder. He's goin' to make the post-mortem this
afternoon."
"Has the revolver been found?" he asked.
"No, sir. We've been searching all the morning, but can find nothing."
"And what was in his pockets?" inquired Winsloe, his anxiety well
disguised.
"Nothing."
"Nothing at all?" he demanded.
"Oh! a knife, a piece of pencil, a little money and a few odds and ends.
But nothing of any use to us."
"Then you can't identify him?"
"Unfortunately we can't, sir," was the man's reply.
"We hope to find out who he is, but from all appearances he's a total
stranger in these parts."
"It's very evident that the murderer searched the poor fellow's
pockets," Jack said. "He was afraid lest his victim might be
identified."
"That's what we think, m'lord," remarked one of Booth's companions.
"The tab off the back of his jacket, which bore the maker's name, has
been cut out."
"By the murderer?" asked Wydcombe.
"Probably so, m'lord."
"Then whoever killed him took good care to remove every scrap of
evidence which might lead to his victim's identification," Ellice
Winsloe remarked, standing with his eyes fixed steadily upon the dead
face.
"That's what our superintendent thinks. He believes that if we
establish who the poor fellow is, that we shall have no difficulty in
putting our hand upon the guilty person."
"But did no one hear the shot?" Winsloe inquired.
"Nobody. The doctor thinks the affair took place late in the
afternoon," answered Booth.
Winsloe pursed his white lips, and turned away. For an instant a
haggard, fearsome look crossed his hard countenance--the look of a man
haunted by a guilty secret--but a moment later, when Wydcombe turned to
join him, his face changed, and he exclaimed lightly,--
"Let's get out of this. The thing's a complete mystery, and we must
leave it to the police to puzzle it all out. Of course, there'll be an
inquest, and then we may hear something further."
"At present the affair is a complete enigma," Jack remarked. Then,
bending again towards the dead man's face, he added, "Do you know,
Ellice, I can't help thinking that I've seen him before somewhere, but
where, I can't for the life of me recollect."
I saw that Winsloe started, and he turned again. "I don't recognise him
in the least," he said quickly. "A face is always altered by death. He
now resembles, perhaps, somebody you've known."
"Ah, perhaps so," remarked the young viscount. "Yet I certainly have a
faint impression of having seen him somewhere before--or somebody very
like him."
"I hope your lordship will try and remember," urged the village
constable. "It would be of the greatest assistance to us."
"I'll try and think, Booth. If I recollect I'll send for you," he
answered.
"Thank you, m'lord," the constable replied, and as I glanced covertly at
Winsloe I saw that his face had fallen.
Would Scarcliff recall who he really was?
"To identify a dead person is always most difficult," Winsloe remarked
with assumed disinterestedness. "I've heard of cases where half a dozen
different families have laid claim to one dead body--wives, mothers,
children and intimate friends. No doubt lots of people are buried from
time to time under names that are not their own. Richards, of any
doctor, will tell you that a countenance when drawn by death is most
difficult to recognise."
By those remarks I saw that he was trying very ingeniously to arouse
doubt within Jack's mind, in order to prevent him making any statement.
His attitude increased the mystery a hundredfold.
I recollected the secret Sybil had revealed to me on the previous
afternoon when we had stood together in the Long Gallery--how she had
told me that she intended to many Winsloe. What he had said now aroused
my suspicions.
Winsloe knew the victim. That he had identified him I was fully
convinced, and yet he held his tongue. What motive had he in that? Was
he, I wondered, aware of the terrible truth?
Fortunately, I held in my possession those injudicious letters of
Sybil's, and that miniature; fortunately, too, I knew the real facts,
and was thus enabled to watch the impression produced upon Winsloe by
sight of the victim.
As we left the barn I walked by his side.
"A queer affair, isn't it?" I remarked. "Strange that a man could be
murdered here, close to the village in broad daylight, and nobody hear
the shot!"
"But we were shooting until late yesterday afternoon, remember," he said
quickly. "The villagers thought it was one of our shots, I expect."
"I wonder who he is?" I exclaimed.
"Ah! I wonder," he said. "He walked a long way, evidently. He's
probably some tramp or other. He might have quarrelled with his
companion--who knows? Perhaps the police will find out all about him."
"It will be interesting to see if they discover anything," I said,
glancing at him at the same instant.
"Yes," he said, "it will," and then he turned to speak with Wydcombe,
who was walking at Booth's side.
Whatever his knowledge, his self-command was marvellous. The others,
who had not seen that expression on his face when he had first gazed
upon the dead countenance, had no suspicion of the truth.
Yes. Ellice Winsloe was playing a double game; therefore I resolved to
wait and to watch.
Together we walked up through the park again, discussing the strange
affair. Jack advanced more than one theory.
"Charlton Wood doesn't lead to anywhere," he pointed out. "Therefore
the dead man kept an appointment there. Perhaps he was lured to his
death," he added. "There may have been two or more assassins."
"No, I rather disagree," said Wydcombe. "If there had been a plot to
kill him they wouldn't have risked firing a revolver, as it would
attract too much attention. No, depend upon it that the affair was not
a premeditated one. Did you notice his boots? Although dusty and badly
worn they were evidently by a good maker. Besides, I felt his hand. It
was as soft as a woman's."
"But you surely don't believe that he was a gentleman, do you?" asked
Winsloe. "To me the fellow was more like a tramp."
"I hardly know what to think, Ellice," was his lordship's reply as he
lit a cigarette. "It's a mystery, and that's all one can say. Whoever
killed him was a confoundedly good shot."
"You don't think it was suicide?" Winsloe asked slowly, looking the
speaker straight in the face.
"Suicide! Of course not. Why don't you hear? They haven't found a
revolver."
And with such remarks as these we went back to the house for lunch.
When we had all assembled at table, Eric and Lady Wydcombe alone being
absent, old Lady Scarcliff exclaimed suddenly,--
"Tibbie has broken out again. She took Mason and went off in the car
early this morning without telling anyone where she was going. Did
anybody hear the car go off?" she inquired, looking around the table.
But all expressed surprise at Tibbie's absence, and of course nobody had
heard her departure. Where had she gone, and why, we all asked.
Whereupon her ladyship merely replied,--
"I'm sure I can't tell you anything. Simmons brought me a scribbled
note at nine o'clock this morning, saying that she had found it in her
room. It was from Tibbie to say that as she couldn't sleep she had got
up and gone out with Mason. `Perhaps I shall be back to-morrow,' she
says, `but if I am not, please don't worry after me. I shall be all
right and will write.'"
"Gone to see Aunt Clara down at Hove, perhaps," remarked Jack. "She
said something about running down there a few days ago."
"But it isn't proper for a young girl tearing about the country by
herself and driving her own car," protested the old lady. "She knows
that I most strongly disapprove of it."
"And therefore does it all the more," laughed the man who had identified
the victim in Charlton Wood.
"Tibbie is really quite incorrigible."
"Quite, Mr Winsloe," declared her ladyship. "My only fear is that one
day something terrible may happen to her. The driving of a big car is,
I always say, not a proper occupation for a girl. She'll come to grief
some day--depend upon it!"
Ellice looked straight at the old lady, without uttering any word of
reply. What did he know, I wondered? Was he, too, aware of her secret?
But the others were chattering gaily, and next moment he turned from me
and joined in their merry gossip.
That afternoon I remained at home, but he drove out with two ladies of
the party to make a call on some people about five miles away.
After he had gone Eric returned, and I told him all that I had seen, and
of my suspicions.
He stood at the end of the grey old terrace, and heard me through to the
end, then said,--
"This puts an entirely new complexion upon matters, old fellow. You
suspect him of knowing something. If so, then we must act at once, and
fearlessly--just as we did last night."
"What do you mean? I don't understand."
"He's out. Therefore we must go to his room and see whether he has
anything there--any letters, for instance. To me, it seems plain that
he was in expectation of the tragedy, and that he fears lest the dead
man should be identified."
"Then your suggestion is to search his belongings?"
"Certainly. Let's go up there. There's no time to lose. He may be
back at any moment."
And so we crossed the great hall and quickly ascended to his room unseen
by the servants. Then after looking rapidly through the drawers we
found that one of Eric's keys fitted the strong brown kitbag at the foot
of the bed.
In a moment it was open, and a few seconds later its contents were out
upon the floor.
Among them we saw something lying which caused us to stare blankly at
each other in utter amazement. The sight of it staggered us completely.
Again the mystery was still further increased. It was inexplicable.
I recognised my own grave peril if I dared to carry out Tibbie's bold
and astounding suggestion.