A STARTLING DISCLOSURE
Cleek took a sudden step forward.
"What's that? What's that?" he rapped out, sharply. "_Your_ shot, Sir
Nigel? This is something I haven't heard of before, and it's likely to
cause trouble. Explain, please!"
But Merriton was past explaining anything just then. For he had bowed his
head in his hands and was sobbing in great, heart-wrung sobs with Doctor
Bartholomew's arms about him, sobs that told of the nerve-strain which
gave them birth, that told of the tenseness under which he had lived
these last weeks. And now the thread had snapped, and all the broken,
jangling nerves of the man had been loosed and torn his control to atoms.
The doctor shook him gently, but with firm fingers.
"Don't be a fool, boy--don't be a fool!" he said over and over again,
as he waved the other away, and, taking out a little phial from his
waistcoat pocket, dropped a dose from it into a wine-glass and forced it
between the man's lips. "Don't make an ass of yourself, Nigel. The shot
you fired was nothing--the mere whim of a man, whose brain had been fired
by champagne and who wasn't therefore altogether responsible for his
actions."
He whipped round suddenly upon Cleek, his faded eyes, with their fringe
of almost white lashes, flashing like points of light from the seamed and
wrinkled frame of his face.
"If you want to hear that foolish part of the story, I can give it to
you," he said, sharply. "Because I happened to be there."
"_You!_"
"Yes--I, Mr.--er--Headland, isn't it? Ah, thanks. But the boy's unstrung,
nerve-racked. He's been through too much. The whole beastly thing has
made a mess of him, and he was a fool to meddle with it. Nigel Merriton
fired a shot that night when Dacre Wynne disappeared, Mr. Headland; fired
it after he had gone up to his room, a little over-excited with too much
champagne, a little over-wrought by the scene through which he had just
passed with the man who had always exercised such a sinister influence
over his life."
"So Sir Nigel was no good friend of this man Wynne's, then?" remarked
Cleek, quietly, as if he did not already know the fact.
The doctor looked up as though he were ready to spring upon him and tear
him limb from limb.
"No!" he said, furiously, "and neither would you have been, if you'd
known him. Great hulking bully that he was! I tell you, I've seen the man
use his influence upon this boy here, until--fine, upstanding chap that
he is (and I've known him and his people ever since he was a baby) he
succeeded in making him as weak as a hysterical girl--and gloated over
it, too!"
Cleek drew in a quiet breath, and gave his shoulders the very slightest
of twitches, to show that he was listening.
"Very interesting, Doctor, as psychological studies of the kind go," he
said, smoothly, stroking his chin and looking down at the bowed shoulders
of the man in the arm chair, with something almost like sorrow in his
eyes. "But we've got to get down to brass tacks, you know. This thing's
serious. It's got to be proved. If it can't be--well, it's going to be
mighty awkward for Sir Nigel. Now, let's hear the thing straight out from
the person most interested, please. I don't like to appear thoughtless in
any way, but this is a serious admission you've just made. Sir Nigel, I
beg of you, tell us the story before the constable comes. It might make
things easier for you in the long run."
Merriton, thus addressed, threw up his head suddenly and showed a face
marked with mental anguish, dry-eyed, deathly white. He got slowly to his
feet and went over to the table, leaning his hand upon it as though for
support.
"Oh, well," he said, listlessly, "you might as well hear it first as
last. Doctor Bartholomew's right, Mr. Headland. I _did_ fire a shot upon
the night of Dacre Wynne's disappearance, and I fired it from my bedroom
window. It was like this:
"Wynne had gone, and after waiting for him to come back away past the
given time, we all made up our minds to go to bed, and Tony West--a pal
of mine who was one of the guests--and the Doctor here accompanied me to
my room door. Dr. Bartholomew had a room next to mine. In that part of
the house the walls are thin, and although my revolver (which I always
carry with me, Mr. Headland, since I lived in India) is one of those
almost soundless little things, still, the sound of it reached him."
"Is it of small calibre?" asked Cleek, at this juncture.
Merriton nodded gravely.
"As you say, of small calibre. You can see it for yourself. Borkins"--he
turned toward the man, who was standing by the doorway, his hands hanging
at his sides, his manner a trifle obsequious; "will you bring it from the
left-hand drawer of my dressing table. Here is the key." He tossed over a
bunch of keys and they fell with a jangling sound upon the floor at
Borkins's feet.
"Very good, Sir Nigel," said the man and withdrew, leaving the door open
behind him, however, as though he were afraid to lose any of the story
that was being told in the quiet morning room.
When he had gone, Merriton resumed:
"I'm not a superstitious man, Mr. Headland, but that old wives' tale of
the Frozen Flames, and the new one coming out every time they claimed
another victim, seemed to have burnt its way into my brain. That and the
champagne together, and then close upon it Dacre Wynne's foolish bet to
find out what the things were. When I went up to my room, and after
saying good-night to the doctor here, closed the door and locked it,
I then crossed to the window and looked out at the flames. And as I
looked--believe it or not, as you will--another flame suddenly sprang up
at the left of the others, a flame that seemed brighter, bigger than any
of the rest, a flame that bore with it the message: 'I am Dacre Wynne'."
Cleek smiled, crookedly, and went on stroking his chin.
"Rather a fanciful story that, Sir Nigel," he said, "but go on. What
happened?"
"Why, I fired at the thing. I picked up my revolver and, in a sort of
blind rage, fired at it through the open window; and I believe I said
something like this: 'Damn it, why won't you go? I'll make you go, you
maddening little devil!' though I know those weren't the identical words
I spoke. As soon as the shot was fired my brain cleared. I began to feel
ashamed of myself, thought what a fool I'd look in front of the boys if
they heard the story; and just at that moment Doctor Bartholomew knocked
at the door."
Here the doctor nodded vigorously as though to corroborate these
statements, and made as if to speak.
Cleek silenced him with a gesture.
"And then--what next, Sir Nigel?"
Merriton cleared his throat before proceeding. There was a drawn look
upon his face.
"The doctor said he thought he had heard a shot, and asked me what it
was, and I replied: 'Nothing. Only I was potting at the flames.' This
seemed to amaze him, as it would any sane man, I should think, and as no
doubt it is amazing you, Mr. Headland. Amazing you and making you think,
'What a fool the fellow is, after all!' Well, I showed the doctor the
revolver in my hand, and he laughingly said that he'd take it to bed
with him, in case I should start potting at _him_ by mistake. Then I
got into bed, after making him promise he wouldn't breathe a word to
anybody of what had occurred, as the others would be sure to laugh at
me; and--that's all."
"H'm. And quite enough, too, I should say," broke in Cleek, as the man
finished. "It sounds true enough, believe me, from your lips, and I know
you for an honourable man; but--what sort of a credence do you think an
average jury is going to place upon it? D'you think they'd believe you?"
He shook his head. "Never. They'd simply laugh at the whole thing, and
say you were either drunk or dreaming. People in the twentieth century
don't indulge in superstition to that extent, Sir Nigel; or, at least,
if they do, they let their reason govern their actions as far as
possible. It's a tall story at best, if you'll forgive me for saying so."
Merriton's face went a dull, sultry red. His eyes flamed.
"Then you don't believe me?" he said, impatiently.
Cleek raised a hand.
"I don't say that for one moment," he replied. "What I say is: 'Would a
judge and jury believe you?' That is the question. And my answer to it
is, 'No.' You've had every provocation to take Dacre Wynne's life, so far
as I can learn, every provocation, that is, that a man of unsound
mentality who would stoop to murder could have to justify himself in his
own eyes. Things look exceedingly black against you, Sir Nigel. You can
swear to this statement as far as your part in it is concerned, Doctor
Bartholomew?"
"Absolutely," said the doctor, though plainly showing that he felt it was
no business of the supposed Mr. Headland's.
"Well, that's good. But if only there had been another witness, someone
who actually saw this thing done, or who had heard the pistol-shot--not
that I'm doubting your word at all, Doctor--it might help to elucidate
matters. There is no one you know of who could have heard--and not
spoken?"
At this juncture Borkins came quietly into the room, holding the little
revolver in his right hand, and handed it to Cleek.
"If you please, sir," he said, impassively, and with a quick look into
Merriton's grave face, "_I_ heard. And I can speak, if the jury wants me
to, I don't doubt but what my tale would be worth listenin' to, if only
to add my hevidence to the rest. That man there"--he pointed one shaking
forefinger at his master's face, and glowered into it for a moment "was
the murderer of poor Mr. Wynne!"