THE NEWS FROM DEVONPORT
The police-inspector, a somewhat silent, stolid sort of man, looked
down from his superior height on Mr. Cazalette's eager face with a
half-bored, half-tolerant expression; he had already seen a good deal
of the old gentleman's fussiness.
"What is it about the box?" he demanded.
"Certain marks on it--inside the lid--that I'd like to photograph,"
answered Mr. Cazalette. "They're small and faint, but if I get a good
negative of them I can enlarge it. And I say again, you don't know
what one mightn't find out--any little detail is of value in a case of
this sort."
The inspector picked up the metal tobacco-box from where it lay amidst
Quick's belongings and looked inside the lid. It was very plain that
he saw nothing there but some--to him meaningless scratches and he put
the thing into Mr. Cazalette's hands with an air of indifference.
"I see no objection," he said. "Let's have it back when you've done
with it. We shall have to exhibit these personal properties before the
coroner."
Mr. Cazalette carried his camera and the tobacco-box outside the shed
in which the dead man's body lay and began to be busy. A gardener's
potting-table stood against the wall; on this, backed by a black
cloth which he had brought from the house, he set up the box and
prepared to photograph it. It was evident that he attached great
importance to what he was doing.
"I shall take two or three negatives of this, Middlebrook," he
observed, consequentially. "I'm an expert in photography, and I've got
an enlarging apparatus in my room. Before the day's out, I shall show
you something."
Personally, I had seen no more in the inner lid of the tobacco-box
than the inspector seemed to have seen--a few lines and scratches,
probably caused by thumb or finger-nail--and I left Mr. Cazalette to
his self-imposed labours and rejoined the doctors and the police who
were discussing the next thing to be done. That Quick had been
murdered there was no doubt; there would have to be an inquest, of
course, and for that purpose his body would have to be removed to the
nearest inn, a house on the cross-roads just beyond Ravensdene Court;
search would have to be set up at once for suspicious characters, and
Noah Quick, of Devonport, would have to be communicated with.
All this the police took in hand, and I saw that Mr. Raven was
heartily relieved when he heard that the dead man would be removed
from his premises and that the inquest would not be held there. Ever
since I had first broken the news to him, he had been upset and
nervous: I could see that he was one of those men who dislike fuss and
publicity. He looked at me with a sort of commiseration when the
police questioned me closely about my knowledge of Salter Quick's
movements on the previous day, and especially about his visit to the
Mariner's Joy.
"Yet," said I, finishing my account of that episode, "it is very
evident that the man was not murdered for the sake of robbery, seeing
that his money and his watch were found on him untouched."
The inspector shook his head.
"I'm not so sure," he remarked. "There's one thing that's certain--the
man's clothes had been searched. Look here!"
He turned to Quick's garments, which had been removed, preparatory to
laying out the body in decent array for interment, and picked up the
waistcoat. Within the right side, made in the lining, there was a
pocket, secured by a stout button. That pocket had been turned inside
out; so, too, had a pocket in the left hip of the trousers,
corresponding to that on the right in which Quick had carried the
revolver that he had shown to us at the inn. The waistcoat was a
thick, quilted affair--its lining, here and there, had been ripped
open by a knife. And the lining of the man's hat had been torn out,
too, and thrust roughly into place again: clearly, whoever killed him
had searched for something.
"It wasn't money they were after," observed the inspector, "but there
was an object. He'd that on him that his murderer was anxious to get.
And the fact that the murderer left all this gold untouched is the
worst feature of the affair--from our point of view."
"Why, now?" inquired Mr. Raven.
"Because, sir, it shows that the murderer, whoever he was, had plenty
of money on him," replied the inspector grimly. "And as he had, he'd
have little difficulty in getting away. Probably he got an early
morning train, north or south, and is hundreds of miles off by this
time. But we must do our best--and we'll get to work now."
Leaving everything to the police--obviously with relief and
thankfulness--Mr. Raven retired from the scene, inviting the two
medical men and the inspector into the house with him, to take, as he
phrased, a little needful refreshment; he sent out a servant to
minister to the constables in the same fashion. Leaving him and his
guests in the morning-room and refusing Mr. Cazalette's invitation to
join him in his photographic enterprise, I turned into the big hall
and there found Miss Raven. I was glad to find her alone; the mere
sight of her, in her morning freshness, was welcome after the gruesome
business in which I had just been engaged. I think she saw something
of my thoughts in my face, for she turned to me sympathetically.
"What a very unfortunate thing that this should have happened at the
very beginning of your visit!" she exclaimed. "Didn't it give you an
awful shock, to find that poor fellow?--so unexpectedly!"
"It was certainly not a pleasant experience," I answered. "But--I was
not quite as surprised as you might think."
"Why not?" she asked.
"Because--I can't explain it, quite--I felt, yesterday, that the man
was running risks by showing his money as foolishly as he did," I
replied. "And, of course, when I found him, I thought he'd been
murdered for his money."
"And yet he wasn't!" she said. "For you say it was all found on him.
What an extraordinary mystery! Is there no clue? I suppose he must
really have been killed by that man who was spoken of at the inn? You
think they met?"
"To tell you the truth," I answered, "at present I don't know what to
think--except that this is merely a chapter in some mystery--an
extraordinary one, as you remark. We shall hear more. And, in the
meantime--a much pleasanter thing--won't you show me round the house?
Mr. Raven is busy with the police-inspector and the doctors, and--I'm
anxious to know what the extent of my labours may be."
She at once acquiesced in this proposition, and we began to inspect
the accumulations of the dead-and-gone master of Ravensdene Court. As
his successor had remarked in his first letter to me, Mr. John
Christopher Raven, though obviously a great collector, had certainly
not been a great exponent of system and order--except in the library
itself, where all his most precious treasures were stored in tall,
locked book-presses, his gatherings were lumped together anyhow and
anywhere, all over the big house--the north wing was indeed a
lumber-house--he appeared to have bought books, pamphlets, and
manuscripts by the cart-load, and it was very plain to me, as an
expert, that the greater part of his possessions of these sorts had
never even been examined. Before Miss Raven and I had spent an hour in
going from one room to another I had arrived at two definite
conclusions--one, that the dead man's collection of books and papers
was about the most heterogeneous I had ever set eyes on, containing
much of great value and much of none whatever; the other, that it
would take me a long time to make a really careful and proper
examination of it, and longer still to arrange it in proper order.
Clearly, I should have to engage Mr. Raven in a strictly business
talk, and find out what his ideas were in regard to putting his big
library on a proper footing. Mr. Raven at last joined us, in one of
the much-encumbered rooms. With him was the doctor, Lorrimore, whom he
had mentioned to me as living near Ravensdene Court. He introduced him
to his niece, with, I thought, some signs of pleasure; then to me,
remarking that we had already seen each other in different
surroundings--now we could foregather in pleasanter ones.
"Dr. Lorrimore," he continued, glancing from me to Miss Raven and then
to the doctor with a smile that was evidently designed to put us all
on a friendly footing, "Dr. Lorrimore and I have been having quite a
good talk. It turns out that he has spent a long time in India. So we
have a lot in common."
"How very nice for you, Uncle Francis!" said Miss Raven. "I know
you've been bored to death with having no one you could talk to about
curries and brandy-pawnees and things--now Dr. Lorrimore will come and
chat with you. Were you long in India, Dr. Lorrimore?"
"Twelve years," answered the doctor. "I came home just a year ago."
"To bury yourself in these wilds!" remarked Miss Raven. "Doesn't it
seem quite out of the world here--after that?"
Dr. Lorrimore glanced at Mr. Raven and showed a set of very white
teeth in a meaning smile. He was a tall, good-looking man, dark of eye
and hair; moustached and bearded; apparently under forty years of
age--yet, at each temple, there was the faintest trace of silvery
grey. A rather notable man, too, I thought, and one who was evidently
scrupulous about his appearance--yet his faultlessly cut frock suit of
raven black, his glossy linen, and smart boots looked more fitted to a
Harley Street consulting-room than to the Northumbrian cottages and
farmsteads amongst which his lot must necessarily be cast. He
transferred his somewhat gleaming, rather mechanical smile to Miss
Raven.
"On the contrary," he said in a quiet almost bantering tone, "this
seems--quite gay. I was in a part of India where one had to travel
long distances to see a white patient--and one doesn't count the rest.
And--I bought this practice, knowing it to be one that would not make
great demands on my time, so that I could devote myself a good deal to
certain scientific pursuits in which I am deeply interested. No!--I
don't feel out of the world, Miss Raven, I assure you."
"He has promised to put in some of his spare time with me, when he
wants company," said Mr. Raven. "We shall have much in common."
"Dark secrets of a dark country!" remarked Dr. Lorrimore, with a sly
glance at Miss Raven. "Over our cheroots!"
Then, excusing himself from Mr. Raven's pressing invitation to stay to
lunch, he took himself off, and my host, his niece, and myself
continued our investigations. These lasted until the lunch hour--they
afforded us abundant scope for conversation, too, and kept us from
any reference to the grim tragedy of the early morning.
Mr. Cazalette made no appearance at lunch. I heard a footman inform
Miss Raven, in answer to her inquiry, that he had just taken Mr.
Cazalette's beef-tea to his room and that he required nothing else.
And I did not see him again until late that afternoon, when, as the
rest of us were gathered about the tea-table in the hall, before a
cheery fire, he suddenly appeared, a smile of grim satisfaction on his
queer old face. He took his usual cup of tea and dry biscuit and sat
down in silence. But by that time I was getting inquisitive.
"Well, Mr. Cazalette," I said, "have you brought your photographic
investigations to any successful conclusion?"
"Yes, Mr. Cazalette," chimed in Miss Raven, whom I had told of the old
man's odd fancy about the scratches on the lid of the tobacco-box.
"We're dying to know if you've found out anything. Have you--and what
is it?"
He gave us a knowing glance over the rim of his tea-cup.
"Aye!" he said. "Young folks are full of curiosity. But I'm not going
to say what I've discovered, nor how far my investigations have gone.
Ye must just die a bit more, Miss Raven, and maybe when ye're on the
point of demise I'll resuscitate ye with the startling news of my
great achievements."
I knew by that time that when Mr. Cazalette relapsed into his native
Scotch he was most serious, and that his bantering tone was assumed as
a cloak. It was clear that we were not going to get anything out of
him just then. But Mr. Raven tried another tack, fishing for
information.
"You really think those marks were made of a purpose, Cazalette?" he
suggested. "You think they were intentional?"
"I'll not say anything at present," answered Mr. Cazalette. "The
experiment is in course of process. But I'll say this, as a student of
this sort of thing--yon murderer was far from the ordinary."
Miss Raven shuddered a little.
"I hope the man who did it is not hanging about!" she said.
Mr. Cazalette shook his head with a knowing gesture.
"Ye need have no fear of that, lassie!" he remarked. "The man that did
it had put a good many miles between himself and his victim long
before Middlebrook there made his remarkable discovery."
"Now, how do you know that, Mr. Cazalette?" I asked, feeling a bit
restive under the old fellow's cock-sureness. "Isn't that guess-work?"
"No!" said he. "It's deduction--and common-sense. Mine's a nature
that's full of both those highly admirable qualities, Middlebrook."
He went away then, as silently as he had come. And when, a few minutes
later, I, too, went off to some preliminary work that I had begun in
the library, I began to think over the first events of the morning,
and to wonder if I ought not to ask Mr. Cazalette for some explanation
of the incident of the yew-hedge. He had certainly secreted a piece of
blood-stained, mud-discoloured linen in that hedge for an hour or so.
Why? Had it anything to do with the crime? Had he picked it up on the
beach when he went for his dip? Why was he so secretive about it? And
why, if it was something of moment, had he not carried it straight to
his own room in the house, instead of hiding it in the hedge while he
evidently went back to the house and made his toilet? The circumstance
was extraordinary, to say the least of it.
But on reflection I determined to hold my tongue and abide my time.
For anything I knew, Mr. Cazalette might have cut one of his feet on
the sharp stones on the beach, used his handkerchief to staunch the
wound, thrown it away into the hedge, and then, with a touch of native
parsimony, have returned to recover the discarded article. Again, he
might be in possession of some clue, to which his tobacco-box
investigations were ancillary--altogether, it was best to leave him
alone. He was clearly deeply interested in the murder of Salter Quick,
and I had gathered from his behaviour and remarks that this sort of
thing--investigation of crime--had a curious fascination for him. Let
him, then, go his way; something, perhaps, might come of it. One thing
was very sure, and the old man had grasped it readily--this crime was
no ordinary one.
As the twilight approached, making my work in the library impossible,
and having no wish to go on with it by artificial light, I went out
for a walk. The fascination which is invariably exercised on any of us
by such affairs led me, half-unconsciously, to the scene of the
murder. The tide, which had been up in the morning, was now out,
though just beginning to turn again, and the beach, with its masses
of bare rock and wide-spreading deposits of sea-weed, looked bleak and
desolate in the uncertain grey light. But it was not without life--two
men were standing near the place where I had come upon Salter Quick's
dead body. Going nearer to them, I recognized one as Claigue, the
landlord of the Mariner's Joy. He recognized me at the same time, and
touched his cap with a look that was alike knowing and confidential.
"So it came about as I'd warned him, sir!" he said, without preface.
"I told him how it would be. You heard me! A man carrying gold about
him like that!--and showing it to all and sundry. Why, he was asking
for trouble!"
"The gold was found on him," I answered. "And his watch and other
things. He wasn't murdered for his property."
Claigue uttered a sharp exclamation. He was evidently taken aback.
"You hadn't heard that, then?" I suggested.
"No," he replied. "I hadn't heard that, sir. Bless me! his money and
valuables found on him. No! we've heard naught except that he was
found murdered, here, early this morning. Of course, I concluded that
it had been for the sake of his money--that he'd been pulling it out
in some public-house or other, and had been followed. Dear me! that
puts a different complexion on things. Now, what's the meaning of it,
in your opinion, sir?"
"I have none," I answered. "The whole thing's a mystery--so far. But,
as you live hereabouts, perhaps you can suggest something. The
doctors are of the opinion that he was murdered--here--yesterday
evening: that his body had been lying here, just above high-water
mark, since, probably, eight or nine o'clock last night. Now, what
could he be doing down at this lonely spot? He went inland when he
left your house."
The man who was with Claigue offered an explanation. There was, he
said, a coast village or two further along the headlands; it would be
a short cut to them to follow the beach.
"Yes," said I, "but that would argue that he knew the lie of the land.
And, according to his own account, he was a complete stranger."
"Aye!" broke in Claigue. "But he wasn't alone, sir, when he came here!
He'd fallen in with somebody, somewhere, that brought him down
here--and left him, dead. And--who was it?"
There was no answering that question, and presently we parted, Claigue
and his companion going back towards his inn, and I to Ravensdene
Court. The dusk had fallen by that time, and the house was lighted
when I came back. Entering by the big hall, I saw Mr. Raven, Mr.
Cazalette, and the police-inspector standing in close conversation by
the hearth. Mr. Raven beckoned me to approach.
"Here's some most extraordinary news from Devonport--where Quick came
from," he said. "The inspector wired to the police there this morning,
telling them to communicate with his brother, whose name, you know,
was found on him. He's had a wire from them this afternoon--read it!"
He turned to the inspector, who placed a telegram in my hand. It ran
thus:
"Noah Quick was found murdered at lonely spot on riverside
near Saltash at an early hour this morning. So far no clue
whatever to murderer."