THE TOBACCO BOX
My first feeling of almost stupefied horror at seeing a man whom I had
met only the day before in the full tide of life and vigour lying
there in that lonely place, literally weltering in his own blood and
obviously the victim of a foul murder speedily changed to one of angry
curiosity. Who had wrought this crime? Crime it undoubtedly was--the
man's attitude, the trickle of blood from his slightly parted lips
across the stubble of his chin, the crimson stain on the sand at his
side, the whole attitude of his helpless figure, showed me that he had
been attacked from the rear and probably stricken down by a deadly
knife thrust through his shoulders. This was murder--black murder. And
my thoughts flew to what Claigue, the landlord, had said, warningly,
the previous afternoon, about the foolishness of showing so much gold.
Had Salter Quick disregarded that warning, flashed his money about in
some other public house, been followed to this out of the way spot and
run through the heart for the sake of his fistful of sovereigns? It
looked like it. But then that thought fled, and another took its
place--the recollection of the blood-stained linen, rag, bandage, or
handkerchief, which that queer man Mr. Cazalette had pushed into
hiding in the yew-hedge. Had that--had Cazalette himself--anything to
do with this crime?
The instinctive desire to get an answer to this last question made me
suddenly stoop down and lay my fingers on the dead man's open palm. I
was conscious as I did so of the extraordinary, appealing helplessness
of his hands--instead of being clenched in a death agony as I should
have expected they were stretched wide; they looked nerveless, limp,
effortless. But when my fingers came to the nearest one--the right
hand--I found that it was stiff, rigid, stone-cold. I knew then that
Salter Quick had been dead for several hours; had probably been lying
there, murdered, all through the darkness of the night.
There were no signs of any struggle. At this point the sands were
unusually firm and for the most part, all round and about the body,
they remained unbroken. Yet there were footprints, very faint indeed,
yet traceable, and I saw at once that they did not extend beyond this
spot. There were two distinct marks; one there of boots with nails in
the heels; these were certainly made by the dead man; the other
indicated a smaller, very light-soled boot, perhaps a slipper. A yard
or so behind the body these marks were mingled; that had evidently
been done when the murderer stole close up to his victim, preparatory
to dealing the fatal thrust.
Carefully, slowly, I traced these footsteps. They were plainly
traceable, faint though they were, to the edge of the low cliff, there
a gentle slope of some twelve or fifteen feet in height; I traced them
up its incline. But from the very edge of the cliff the land was
covered by a thick wire-like turf; you could have run a heavy gun
over it without leaving any impression. Yet it was clear that two men
had come across it to that point, had then descended the cliff to the
sand, walked a few yards along the beach, and then--one had murdered
the other.
Standing there, staring around me, I was suddenly startled by the
explosion of a gun, close at hand. And then, from a coppice, some
thirty yards away, a man emerged, whom I took, from his general
appearance, to be a gamekeeper. Unconscious of my presence he walked
forward in my direction, picked up a bird which his shot had brought
down, and was thrusting it into a bag that hung at his hip, when I
called to him. He looked round sharply, caught sight of me, and came
slowly in my direction, wondering, I could see, who I was. I made
towards him. He was a middle-aged, big-framed man, dark of skin and
hair, sharp-eyed.
"Are you Mr. Raven's gamekeeper?" I asked, as I got within speaking
distance. "Just so--I am staying with Mr. Raven. And I've just made a
terrible discovery. There is a man lying behind the cliff
there--dead."
"Dead, sir?" he exclaimed. "What--washed up by the tide, likely."
"No," I said. "He's been murdered. Stabbed to death!"
He let out a short, sibilant breath, looking at me with rapidly
dilating eyes: they ran me all over, as if he wondered whether I were
romancing.
"Come this way," I continued, leading him to the edge of the cliff.
"And mind how you walk on the sand--there are footmarks there, and I
don't want them interfered with till the police have examined them.
There!" I continued, as we reached the edge of the turf and came in
view of the beach. "You see?"
He gave another exclamation of surprise: then carefully followed me to
the dead man's side where he stood staring wonderingly at the stains
on the sand.
"He must have been dead for some hours," I whispered. "He's
stone-cold--and rigid. Now, this is murder! You live about here, no
doubt? Did you see or hear anything of this man in the neighbourhood
last night--or in the afternoon or evening?"
"I, sir?" he exclaimed. "No, sir--nothing!"
"I met him yesterday afternoon on the headlands between this and
Alnmouth," I remarked.
"I was with him for a while at the Mariner's Joy. He pulled out a big
handful of gold there, to pay for his lunch. The landlord warned him
against showing so much money. Now, before we do more, I'd like to
know if he's been murdered for the sake of robbery. You're doubtless
quicker of hand than I am--just slip your hand into that right-hand
pocket of his trousers, and see if you feel money there."
He took my meaning on the instant, and bending down, did what I
suggested. A smothered exclamation came from him.
"Money?" he said. "His pocket's full o' money!"
"Bring it out," I commanded.
He withdrew his hand; opened it; the palm was full of gold. The light
of the morning sun flashed on those coins as if in mockery. We both
looked at them--and then at each other with a sudden mutual
intelligence.
"Then it wasn't robbery!" I exclaimed. "So--"
He thrust back the gold, and pulling at a thick chain of steel which
lay across Quick's waistcoat, drew out a fine watch.
"Gold again, sir!" he said. "And a good 'un, that's never been bought
for less than thirty pound. No, it's not been robbery."
"No," I agreed, "and that makes it all the more mysterious. What's
your name?"
"Tarver, sir, at your service," he answered, as he rose from the dead
man's side. "Been on this estate a many years, sir."
"Well, Tarver," I said, "the only thing to be done is that I must go
back to the house and tell Mr. Raven what's happened, and send for the
police. Do you stay here--and if anybody comes along, be very careful
to keep them off those footmarks."
"Not likely that there'll be anybody, sir," he remarked. "As lonely a
bit of coast, this, as there is, hereabouts. What beats me," he added,
"is--what was he--and the man as did it--doing, here? There's naught
to come here for. And--it must ha' happened in the night, judging by
the looks of him."
"The whole thing's a profound mystery," I answered. "We shall hear a
lot more of it."
I left him standing by the dead man and went hurriedly away towards
Ravensdene Court. Glancing at my watch as I passed through the belt of
pine, I saw that it was already getting on to nine o'clock and
breakfast time. But this news of mine would have to be told: this was
no time for waiting or for ceremony. I must get Mr. Raven aside, at
once, and we must send for the nearest police officer, and--
Just then, fifty yards in front of me, I saw Mr. Cazalette vanishing
round the corner of the long yew-hedge, at the end nearest to the
house. So--he had evidently been back to the place whereat he had
hidden the stained linen, whatever it was? Coming up to that place a
moment later, and making sure that I was not observed, I looked in
amongst the twigs and foliage. The thing was gone.
This deepened the growing mystery more than ever. I began, against my
will, to piece things together. Mr. Cazalette, returning from the
beach, hides a blood-stained rag--I, going to the beach, find a
murdered man--coming back, I ascertain that Mr. Cazalette has already
removed what he had previously hidden. What connection was there--if
any at all--between Mr. Cazalette's actions and my discovery? To say
the least of it, the whole thing was queer, strange, and even
suspicious.
Then I caught sight of Mr. Cazalette again. He was on the terrace, in
front of the house, with Mr. Raven--they were strolling up and down,
before the open window of the morning room, chatting. And I was
thankful that Miss Raven was not with them, and that I saw no sign of
her near presence.
I determined to tell my gruesome news straight out--Mr. Raven, I felt
sure, was not the man to be startled by tidings of sudden death, and I
wanted, of set purpose, to see how his companion would take the
announcement. So, as I walked up the steps of the terrace, I loudly
called my host's name. He turned, saw from my expression that
something of moment had happened, and hurried toward me, Cazalette
trotting in his rear. I gave a warning look in in the direction of
the house and its open windows.
"I don't want to alarm Miss Raven," I said in a low voice, which I
purposely kept as matter-of-fact as possible. "Something has happened.
You know the man I was telling you of last night--Salter Quick? I
found his dead body, half-an-hour ago, on your beach. He has been
murdered--stabbed to the heart. Your gamekeeper, Tarver, is with him.
Had you not better send for the police?"
I carefully watched both men as I broke the news. Its effect upon them
was different in both cases. Mr. Raven started a little; exclaimed a
little: he was more wonder-struck than horrified. But Mr. Cazalette's
mask-like countenance remained immobile; only, a gleam of sudden,
almost pleased interest showed itself in his black, shrewd eyes.
"Aye?" he exclaimed. "So you found your man dead and murdered,
Middlebrook? Well, now, that's the very end that I was thinking the
fellow would come to! Not that I fancied it would be so soon, nor so
close at hand. On one's own doorstep so to speak. Interesting! Very
interesting!"
I was too much taken aback by his callousness to make any observation
on these sentiments; instead, I looked at Mr. Raven. He was evidently
too much surprised just then to pay any attention to his elder guest:
he motioned me to follow him.
"Come with me to the telephone," he said. "Dear, dear, what a very sad
thing. Of course, the poor fellow has been murdered for his money? You
said he'd a lot of gold on him."
"It's not been for robbery," I answered. "His money and his watch are
untouched. There's more in it than that."
He stared at me as if failing to comprehend.
"Some mystery?" he suggested.
"A very deep and lurid one, I think," said I. "Get the police out as
quickly as possible, and bid them bring a doctor."
"They'll bring their own police-surgeon," he remarked, "but we have a
medical man closer at hand. I'll ring him up, too. Yet--what can they
do?"
"Nothing--for him," I replied. "But they may be able to tell us at
what hour the thing took place. And that's important."
When we left the telephone we went to the morning-room, to get a
mouthful of food before going down to the beach. Miss Raven was
there--so was Cazalette. I saw at once that he had told her the news.
She was sitting behind her tea and coffee things, staring at him: he,
on his part, a cup of tea in one hand, a dry biscuit in the other, was
marching up and down the room sipping and munching, and holding forth,
in didactic fashion, on crime and detection. Miss Raven gave me a
glance as I slipped into a place at her side.
"You found this poor man?" she whispered. "How dreadful for you!"
"For him, too--and far more so," I said. "I didn't want you to know
until--later. Mr. Cazalette oughtn't to have told you."
She arched her eyebrows in the direction of the odd, still orating
figure.
"Oh!" she murmured. "He's no reverence for anything--life or death. I
believe he's positively enjoying this: he's been talking like that
ever since he came in and told me of it."
Mr. Raven and I made a very hurried breakfast and prepared to join
Tarver. The news of the murder had spread through the household; we
found two or three of the men-servants ready to accompany us. And Mr.
Cazalette was ready, too, and, I thought, more eager than any of the
rest. Indeed, when we set out from the house he led the way, across
the gardens and pleasure-grounds, along the yew-hedge (at which he
never so much as gave a glance) and through the belt of pine wood. At
its further extremity he glanced at Mr. Raven.
"From what Middlebrook says, this man must be lying in Kernwick Cove,"
he said. "Now, there's a footpath across the headlands and the field
above from Long Houghton village to that spot. Quick must have
followed it last night. But how came he to meet his murderer--or did
his murderer follow him? And what was Quick doing down here? Was he
directed here--or led here?"
Mr. Raven seemed to think these questions impossible of immediate
answer: his one anxiety at that moment appeared to be to set the
machinery of justice in motion. He was manifestly relieved when, as we
came to the open country behind the pines and firs, where a narrow
lane ran down to the sea, we heard the rattle of a light dog-cart and
turned to see the inspector of police and a couple of his men, who had
evidently hurried off at once on receiving the telephone message. With
them, seated by the inspector on the front seat of the trap, was a
professional-looking man who proved to be the police-surgeon.
We all trooped down to the beach, where Tarver was keeping his
unpleasant vigil. He had been taking a look round the immediate scene
of the murder, he said, during my absence, thinking that he might find
something in the way of a clue. But he had found nothing: there were
no signs of any struggle anywhere near. It seemed clear that two men
had crossed the land, descended the low cliffs, and that one had
fallen on the other as soon as the sands were reached--the footmarks
indicated as much. I pointed them out to the police, who examined them
carefully, and agreed with me that one set was undoubtedly made by the
boots of the dead man while the other was caused by the pressure of
some light-footed, lightly-shoed person. And there being nothing else
to be seen or done at that place, Salter Quick was lifted on to an
improvised stretcher which the servants had brought down from the
Court and carried by the way we had come to an outhouse in the
gardens, where the police-surgeon proceeded to make a more careful
examination of his body. He was presently joined in this by the
medical man of whom Mr. Raven had spoken--a Dr. Lorrimore, who came
hurrying up in his motor-car, and at once took a hand in his
fellow-practitioner's investigations. But there was little to
investigate--just as I had thought from the first. Quick had been
murdered by a knife-thrust from behind--dealt with evident knowledge
of the right place to strike, said the two doctors, for his heart had
been transfixed, and death must have been instantaneous.
Mr. Raven shrank away from these gruesome details, but Mr. Cazalette
showed the keenest interest in them, and would not be kept from the
doctor's elbows. He was pertinacious in questioning them.
"And what sort of a weapon was it, d'ye suppose that the assassin
used?" he asked. "That'll be an important thing to know, I'm
thinking."
"It might have been a seaman's knife," said the police-surgeon. "One
of those with a long, sharp blade."
"Or," said Dr. Lorrimore, "a stiletto--such as foreigners carry."
"Aye," remarked Mr. Cazalette, "or with an operating knife--such as
you medicos use. Any one of those fearsome things would serve, no
doubt. But we'll be doing more good, Middlebrook, just to know what
the police are finding in the man's pockets."
The police-inspector had got all Quick's belongings in a little heap.
They were considerable. Over thirty pounds in gold and silver. Twenty
pounds in notes in an old pocket-book. His watch--certainly a valuable
one. A pipe, a silver match-box, a tobacco-box of some metal, quaintly
chased and ornamented. Various other small matters--but, with one
exception, no papers or letters. The one exception was a slightly
torn, dirty envelope addressed in an ill-formed handwriting to Mr.
Salter Quick, care of Mr. Noah Quick, The Admiral Parker, Haulaway
Street, Devonport. There was no letter inside it, nor was there
another scrap of writing anywhere about the dead man's pockets.
The police allowed Mr. Cazalette to inspect these things according to
his fancy. It was very clear to me by that time that the old
gentleman had some taste for detective work, and I watched him with
curiosity while he carefully examined Quick's money, his watch (of
which he took particular notice, even going so far as to jot down its
number and the name of its maker on his shirt cuff), and the rest of
his belongings. But nothing seemed to excite his interest very deeply
until he began to finger the tobacco-box; then, indeed, his eyes
suddenly coruscated, and he turned to me almost excitedly.
"Middlebrook!" he whispered, edging me away from the others. "Do you
look here, my lad! D'ye see the inside of the lid of this box? There's
been something--a design, a plan, something of that sort,
anyway--scratched into it with the point of a nail, or a knife. Look
at the lines--and see, there's marks and there's figures! Now I'd like
to know what all that signifies? What are you going to do with all
these things?" he asked, turning suddenly on the inspector. "Take them
away?"
"They'll all be carefully sealed up and locked up till the inquest,
sir," replied the inspector. "No doubt the dead man's relatives will
claim them."
Mr. Cazalette laid down the tobacco-box, left the place, and hurried
away in the direction of the house. Within a few minutes he came
hurrying back, carrying a camera. He went up to the inspector with an
almost wheedling air.
"Ye'll just indulge an old man's fancy?" he said, placatingly.
"There's some queer marking inside the lid of that bit of a box that
the poor man kept his tobacco in. I'd like to take a photograph of
them. Man! you don't know that an examination of them mightn't be
useful."