Colwyn had rooms in the upper part of a block of buildings on Ludgate
Hill, looking down on the Circus, above the rookery of passages which
burrow tortuously under the railway arches to Water Lane, Printing House
Square, and Blackfriars. It was a strange locality to live in, but it
suited Colwyn. It was in the thick of things. From his windows, high up
above the roar of the traffic, he could watch the ceaseless flow of life
eastward and westward all day long, and far into the night.
No other part of London offered such variety and scope in the study of
humanity. The City was stodgy, the Strand too uniform, Piccadilly too
fashionable, and the select areas for bachelor chambers, such as the
Temple and Half Moon Street, were backwaters as remote from the roaring
turbulent stream of London life as the Sussex Downs or the Yorkshire
Moors.
In addition to these things, the spot offered a fine contrast in walks
to suit different moods. There was that avenue of wizardry, Fleet
Street, whose high-priests and slaves juggled with the news of the
world; there was the glitter of plate-glass fronts between the Circus
and St. Paul's, the twilight stillness of the archway passages and their
little squeezed shops, the isolation of Play House Yard and Printing
House Square, the bustle of Bridge Street, and the Embankment. From his
window Colwyn could see the City shopgirls feeding the pigeons of St.
Paul's around the statue of Queen Anne.
To Colwyn, London was the place of adventures. He had lived in New York
and Paris, but neither of these cities had for him the same fascination
as the sprawling giant of the Thames. Paris was as stimulating and
provocative as a paid mistress, but palled as quickly. In New York
mysteries beckoned at every street corner, but too importunately.
Neither city was sufficiently discreet for Colwyn's reticent mind. But
London! London was like a woman who hid a secret life beneath an austere
face and sober garments. Underneath her air of prim propriety and calm
indifference were to be found more enthralling secrets than any other
city of the world could reveal. It was emblematic of London that her
mysteries, in their strangest aspects and phases, preserved the air of
ordinary events.
Colwyn saw nothing extraordinary in this. To him Life seemed so
perpetually inconsistent that there could be nothing inconsistent in any
of its events. It was to his faith in this axiom, expressed after his
own paradoxical fashion, that he partly owed some of those brilliant
successes which had stamped him as one of the foremost criminal
investigators of his day. He never rejected a story on the score of its
improbability. He had seen so many unusual things in his career that he
once declared that it was the unforeseen, and not the expected, which
occurs most frequently in this strange world of ours. That was, perhaps,
partly due to the wide gulf between human ideals and actions, but,
whatever the reason, Colwyn never lost sight of the fact that the
incredible, once it happened, became as commonplace as the meals we eat
or the clothes we wear. It seemed to Colwyn that the unexpected happened
too frequently to call forth the astonishment with which it was
invariably greeted by most people. In his experience, Life was almost
too prodigal of its surprises, so much so, indeed, as to be in danger of
reaching the limit of its own resources. But he consoled himself,
whimsically enough, with the belief that such an event was too probable
ever to happen.
It was nearly eleven o'clock at night, and Colwyn, getting up from a
table where he had been busily writing, walked to the window and looked
down on the deserted street beneath. It was a nightly custom of his. He
lived, as he worked, alone, attended only by a taciturn manservant who
had been with him for many years. He accepted with characteristic
philosophy the view that a man who spent his time unveiling shameful
human secrets had no right to share his life with anybody. Even the
articles of furniture of his lonely rooms, if endowed with any sort of
entity, might have worn a furtive air in their consciousness of the
secrets they had heard whispered in their owner's ears by those who had
sought his counsel and assistance in their trouble and despair. There
had been many such secrets poured forth in those lonely rooms, perched
up high above the roar of the London traffic. It was the Confessional of
the incredible.
As Colwyn stood at the window, the electric bell of the front door rang
sharply through the empty building. Looking down into the street, he saw
the figure of a man in the doorway beneath. He glanced at his watch. It
was late for a visitor. He walked to the lift at the end of the passage
and descended. As he did so, the bell in his rooms once more pealed
forth beneath the pressure of an impatient hand.
The visitor, revealed by the light in the hall, was a young man muffled
in a thick overcoat for protection against the sharp autumn wind which
was blowing along the rain-splashed street. He stepped inside the door
as Colwyn opened it, and, glancing at the detective from a pair of dark
eyes just visible beneath the flap of his soft felt hat, said:
"Are you Mr. Colwyn?"
"Yes. What can I do for you?"
"I am afraid it is a very late hour for a visit," said the other,
brushing the rain drops off his coat as he spoke, "but I should be very
glad if you could spare me a little time, late as it is. I have come
from the country to see you."
Colwyn nodded without speaking. Strange adventures had come to him at
stranger hours. He showed the way to the lift, switched off the electric
light he had turned on in the passage, and ascended with his visitor to
his rooms. There his companion, with an impulsiveness which contrasted
with the detective's quiet composure, again spoke:
"I want your assistance, Mr. Colwyn."
"Will you not be seated?" said the detective, as with a swift glance he
took in the external attributes of his young and well-dressed visitor.
"Thank you. I regret to disturb you at such a late hour, but the train I
travelled by was greatly delayed by an accident. I thought at first of
postponing my visit till the morning, but it is so urgent--to me, at all
events--that I determined to try and see you to-night."
"It was just as well that you did. I may be called out of London in the
morning."
"Then I am glad that I came. My name is Heredith--Philip Heredith."
Colwyn looked at his visitor with a keener interest. The London
newspapers were full of the particulars of the moat-house crime, and had
published intimate accounts of the Heredith family, their wealth, social
position, and standing in the county. Colwyn, as he glanced at Philip
Heredith, came to the conclusion that the London picture papers had been
once more guilty of deceiving their credulous readers. The portraits
they had published of him in no wise resembled the young man who was now
seated opposite him, regarding him with a sad and troubled look.
"I have heard of your great skill and cleverness in criminal
investigation, Mr. Colwyn," continued Phil earnestly, "and wish to avail
myself of your help. That is the object of my visit."
Colwyn waited for his visitor to disclose the reasons which had brought
him, seeking advice. He had followed the newspaper accounts of the
murder and police investigations with keen interest. The special
correspondents had done full justice to the arrest of Hazel Rath. There
is no room for reticence or delicacy in modern journalism, and no
reserves except those dictated by fear of the law for libel. Colwyn was
therefore aware that Hazel Rath figured as "the woman in the case," and
was supposed to have shot the young wife in a fit of jealousy. The
newspapers, in publishing these disclosures, had hinted at the existence
of previous tender relations between the young husband and the arrested
girl, in order to whet the public appetite for the "remarkable
revelations" which it was hoped would be brought forward at the trial.
"I have come to consult you about the murder of my wife," continued
Phil, speaking with an evident effort. "I should like you to make some
investigations."
Colwyn was sufficiently false to his own philosophy of life to
experience a feeling which he would have been the first to admit was
surprise.
"The police have already made an arrest in the case," he said.
"I believe they have arrested an innocent girl."
As the young man sat there, he looked so worn and ill that Colwyn felt
his sympathy go out to him. He seemed too boyish and frail to bear such
a weight of tragedy on his shoulders at the outset of his life. His face
wore an aspect of despair.
"If you think that a mistake has been made, you had better go to
Scotland Yard," said Colwyn.
"I have already spoken to Detective Caldew, but his attitude convinced
me that it was hopeless to expect any assistance from Scotland Yard, so
I decided to come to you."
"In that case you had better tell me all that you know, if you wish me
to help you," said the detective. "In the first place, I wish to hear
all the facts of the murder itself. I have read the newspaper accounts,
but they necessarily lack those more intimate details which may mean so
much. I should like to hear everything from beginning to end."
In a voice which was still weak from illness, Phil did as he was
requested, and related the strange sequence of events which had happened
at the moat-house on the night of his wife's murder. Those events, as he
described them, took on a new complexion to his listener, suggesting a
deeper and more complex mystery than the newspaper accounts of the
crime.
From the first the moat-house murder had appealed to Colwyn's
imagination and stimulated his intellectual curiosity. There was the
pathos of the youth and sex of the victim, murdered in a peaceful
country home. The terrible primality of murder accords more easily with
the elemental gregariousness of slum existence; its horror is
accentuated, by force of contrast, in the tender simplicity of an
English sylvan setting. Colwyn's chief interest lay in the fact that,
although the case against Hazel Rath was as strong as circumstantial
evidence could make it, the supposed motive for the crime was weak. But
he reflected that there did not exist in human life any motive
sufficiently strong to warrant the commission of a crime like murder.
Probably no great murder had ever been justified by motive, in the sense
that incitement is vindication, though human nature, ever on the alert
in defence of itself, was prone to accept such excuses as passion and
revenge as adequate motives for destruction. The point which perplexed
Colwyn in this particular case was whether the incitement of jealousy
was sufficient to impel a young girl, brought up in good social
environment, which is ever a conventional deterrent to violent crime, to
murder her rival in a sudden gust of passion.
"Now, let me hear your reasons for thinking that the police have made a
mistake in arresting Hazel Rath," the detective said, when Phil had
concluded his narration of the events of the night of the murder. "The
case against her seems very strong."
"Nevertheless, I feel sure she did not do it," said Phil emphatically.
"I understand her nature and disposition too well to believe her guilty.
I have known her since childhood. She has a sweet and gentle nature."
"I am afraid your personal opinion will count for very little against
the weight of evidence," replied Colwyn. "It is impossible to generalize
in a crime like murder. My experience is that the most unlikely people
commit violent crimes under sudden stress. Unless you have something
more to go upon than that, your protestations will count for very little
at the trial. Criminal judges know too well that human nature is capable
of almost anything except sustained goodness."
It was the same point of view, only differently expressed, that
Superintendent Merrington had advanced to Captain Stanhill at the
moat-house the evening after the murder.
"I have other reasons for thinking Hazel Rath innocent," replied Phil.
"If she had murdered my wife we would have seen her as we rushed
upstairs after hearing the scream and shot. She hadn't time to escape."
"What about the window of your wife's room?"
"It is nearly twenty feet from the ground, so that would be impossible."
"How do you account for the brooch being found in your wife's bedroom?
Is there any doubt that it belongs to Hazel Rath?"
"It is quite true that the brooch is hers. I gave it to her on her
birthday, some years ago. The police think that Hazel is in love with
me, and murdered my wife through jealousy. But that is not true. I have
known her since she was a little girl, and regarded her as a sister."
Phil uttered these words with a ringing sincerity which it was
impossible to doubt. But that statement, Colwyn reflected, did not carry
them very far. The speaker might honestly believe that the feeling
existing between himself and Hazel Rath was like the affection of
brother and sister, but he was speaking for himself, and not for the
girl. Who could read the secret of a woman's heart? The real question
was, did Hazel Rath love Philip Heredith? There lay a motive for the
murder, if she did.
"Does Hazel Rath still refuse to explain how her brooch came to be found
in Mrs. Heredith's bedroom and subsequently disappeared?" inquired
Colwyn after a short pause.
"I understand that she persists in remaining silent," returned the young
man. "Oh, I admit the case seems suspicious against her," he continued
passionately, as though in answer to a slight shrug of the detective's
shoulders. "It is for that reason I have come to you. I believe her
innocent, and I want you to try and establish her innocence."
"I am afraid I must decline, Mr. Heredith." A sympathetic glance of
Colwyn's eyes softened the firm tone of the refusal. "Apart from your
own belief in Miss Rath's innocence, you have very little to go upon."
"There is more than that to go upon," said Phil. "There is the question
of the identity of the revolver. Hazel is supposed to have obtained it
from the gun-room."
"I know that from the newspaper reports."
"Yes, but you do not know that the detectives have not been able to
establish the ownership of the weapon until to-day. They were under the
impression that it belonged to the moat-house, but neither my father nor
aunt was able to settle the point. Detective Caldew visited the
moat-house to-day to see if I could identify it. I immediately
recognized it as the property of Captain Nepcote."
"Who is Captain Nepcote?"
"He is a friend of mine. I knew him in London before I was married. He
was a friend of my wife's also. He was one of our guests at the
moat-house until the day of the murder."
"Did he leave before the murder was committed?"
"Yes; some hours before."
"Then how did Hazel Rath obtain possession of his revolver?"
"That is what I do not know. I must tell you that the day before the
murder some of our guests spent a wet afternoon amusing themselves
shooting at a target in the gun-room. They were using Captain Nepcote's
revolver. When I told Detective Caldew this, he came to the conclusion
that Nepcote must have left it there after the shooting, and Hazel Rath
found it when she went to look for a weapon."
"I see. And what is your own opinion?"
"I do not believe it for one moment."
"Why not?"
"For one thing, it strikes me as unlikely that Nepcote would forget his
revolver when leaving the gun-room. In any case, the police are taking
too much for granted in assuming, without inquiry, that he did. Caldew
told me that the question of the ownership of the revolver did not
affect the case against Hazel Rath in the slightest degree."
"Do you know whether the revolver was seen by anybody between the time
of Captain Nepcote's departure and its discovery in Hazel Rath's
possession?"
"I understand that it was not."
"Do you know whether Captain Nepcote took it from the gun-room after the
target shooting?"
"That I cannot say. I left the gun-room before the shooting was
finished."
"Let me see if I thoroughly understand the position," said Colwyn. "In
your narrative of the events of the murder you stated that all the
members of the household and the guests were in the dining-room when the
murder was committed. Nepcote was not there because he had returned to
London during the afternoon. Nevertheless, it was with his revolver that
your wife was shot."
"That is correct," said Phil.
"If Nepcote did not leave his revolver in the gun-room the police theory
would be upset on an important point, and the case would take on a new
aspect. Have you any suspicions that you have not confided to me?"
"I cannot say that I have any particular suspicions," the young man
replied. "I do not know what to think, but I should like to have this
terrible mystery cleared up. I have not seen Nepcote since the day of
the murder to ask him about the revolver. He said good-bye to me before
he left, and I understood that he had received a wire from the War
Office recalling him to the front. After the murder I was taken ill, as
I have told you, and it was not until to-day that I was informed of what
happened during my illness."
"I am inclined to agree with you that the case wants further
investigation," said Colwyn.
"Then will you undertake it?" asked Phil.
The feeling that he was face to face with one of the deepest mysteries
of his career acted as an irresistible call to Colwyn's intellect. He
consulted the leaves of his engagement book.
"Yes, I will come," he said.
Phil glanced at his watch.
"I am afraid we can hardly catch the last train to Heredith," he said.
"We will drive down in my car," said Colwyn. "Please excuse me for a few
moments."
He left the room, and returned in a few moments fully equipped for the
journey.
"Let us start," he said.
His tone was decided and imperative, his movements quick and full of
energy. That was wholly like him, once he had decided on his course.