PAUL HARLEY’S EXPERIMENT
I recognize that whosoever may have taken the trouble to follow my
chronicle thus far will be little disposed to suffer any intrusion of
my personal affairs at such a point. Therefore I shall pass lightly over
the walk back to Cray’s Folly, during which I contrived to learn
much about Val Beverley’s personal history but little to advance the
investigation which I was there to assist.
As I had surmised, Miss Beverley had been amply provided for by her
father, and was bound to Madame de Stämer by no other ties than those of
friendship and esteem. Very reluctantly I released her, on our returning
to the house; for she, perforce, hurried off to Madame’s room, leaving
me looking after her in a state of delightful bewilderment, the
significance of which I could not disguise from myself. The absurd
suspicions of Inspector Aylesbury were forgotten; so was the shadow upon
the blind of Colonel Menendez’s study. I only knew that love had come to
me, an unbidden guest, to stay for ever.
Manoel informed me that a number of pressmen, not to be denied, had
taken photographs of the Tudor garden and of the spot where Colonel
Menendez had been found, but Pedro, following my instructions, had
referred them all to Market Hilton.
I was standing in the doorway talking to the man when I heard the
drone of Harley’s motor in the avenue, and a moment later he and Wessex
stepped out in front of the porch and joined me. I thought that Wessex
looked stern and rather confused, but Harley was quite his old self, his
keen eyes gleaming humorously, and an expression of geniality upon his
tanned features.
“Hullo, Knox!” he cried, “any developments?”
“Yes,” I said. “Suppose we go up to your room and talk.”
“Good enough.”
Inspector Wessex nodded without speaking, and the three of us mounted
the staircase and entered Paul Harley’s room. Harley seated himself
upon the bed and began to load his pipe, whilst Wessex, who seemed very
restless, stood staring out of the window. I sat down in the armchair,
and:
“I have had an interesting interview with Mrs. Camber,” I said.
“What?” exclaimed Harley. “Good. Tell us all about it.”
Wessex turned, hands clasped behind him, and listened in silence to
an account which I gave of my visit to the Guest House. When I had
finished:
“It seems to me,” said the Inspector, slowly, “that the only doubtful
point in the case against Camber is cleared up; namely, his motive.”
“It certainly looks like it,” agreed Harley. “But how strangely Mrs.
Camber’s story differs from that of Menendez although there are points
of contact. I regret, however, that you were unable to settle the most
important matter of all.”
“You mean whether or not she had visited Cray’s Folly?”
“Exactly.”
“Then you still consider my theory to be correct?” I asked eagerly.
“Up to a point it has been proved to be,” he returned. “I must
congratulate you upon a piece of really brilliant reasoning, Knox.
But respecting the most crucial moment of all, we are still without
information, unfortunately. However, whilst the presence or otherwise,
of Mrs. Camber in Cray’s Folly on the night preceding the tragedy may
prove to bear intimately upon the case, an experiment which I propose to
make presently will give the matter an entirely different significance.”
“Hm,” said Wessex, doubtfully, “I am looking forward to this experiment
of yours, Mr. Harley, with great interest. To be perfectly honest,
I have no more idea than the man in the moon how you hope to clear
Camber.”
“No,” replied Harley, musingly, “the weight of evidence against him is
crushing. But you are a man of great experience, Wessex, in criminal
investigations. Tell me honestly, have you ever known a murder case in
which there was such conclusive material for the prosecution?”
“Never,” replied the Inspector, promptly. “In this respect, as in
others, the case is unique.”
“You have seen Camber,” continued Harley, “and have been enabled to form
some sort of judgment respecting his character. You will admit that he
is a clever man, brilliantly clever. Keep this fact in mind. Remember
his studies, and he does not deny that they have included Voodoo.
Remember his enquiries into the significance of Bat Wing. Remember, as
we now learn definitely from Mrs. Camber’s evidence, that he was in
Cuba at the same time as the late Colonel Menendez, and once, at least,
actually in the same hotel in the United States. Consider the rifle
found under the floor of the hut; and, having weighed all these points
judicially, Wessex, tell me frankly, if in the whole course of your
experience, you have ever met with a more perfect frame-up?”
“What!” shouted Wessex, in sudden excitement. “What!”
“I said a frame-up,” repeated Harley, quietly. “An American term, but
one which will be familiar to you.”
“Good God!” muttered the detective, “you have turned all my ideas upside
down.”
“What may be termed the _physical_ evidence,” continued Harley, “is
complete, I admit: too complete. There lies the weak spot. But what
I will call the psychological evidence points in a totally different
direction. A man clever enough to have planned this crime, and Camber
undoubtedly is such a man, could not--it is humanly impossible--have
been fool enough, deliberately to lay such a train of damning facts.
It’s a frame-up, Wessex! I had begun to suspect this even before I
met Camber. Having met him, I knew that I was right. Then came an
inspiration. I saw where there must be a flaw in the plan. It was
geographically impossible that this could be otherwise.”
“Geographically impossible?” I said, in a hushed voice, for Harley had
truly astounded me.
“Geographical is the term, Knox. I admit that the discovery of the rifle
beneath the floor of the hut appalled me.”
“I could see that it did.”
“It was the crowning piece of evidence, Knox, evidence of such fiendish
cleverness on the part of those who had plotted Menendez’s death that I
began to wonder whether after all it would be possible to defeat them. I
realized that Camber’s life hung upon a hair. For the production of that
rifle before a jury of twelve moderately stupid men and true could not
fail to carry enormous weight. Whereas the delicate point upon which
my counter case rested might be more difficult to demonstrate in court.
To-night, however, we shall put it to the test, and there are means, no
doubt, which will occur to me later, of making its significance evident
to one not acquainted with the locality. The press photographs, which I
understand have been taken, may possibly help us in this.”
Bewildered by my friend’s revolutionary ideas, which explained the
hitherto mysterious nature of his enquiries, I scarcely knew what to
say; but:
“If it’s a frame-up, Mr. Harley,” said Wessex, “and the more I think
about it the more it has that look to me, practically speaking, we have
not yet started on the search for the murderer.”
“We have not,” replied Harley, grimly. “But I have a dawning idea of a
method by which we shall be enabled to narrow down this enquiry.”
It must be unnecessary for me to speak of the state of suppressed
excitement in which we passed the remainder of that afternoon and
evening. Dr. Rolleston called again to see Madame de Stämer, and
reported that she was quite calm. In fact, he almost echoed Val
Beverley’s words spoken earlier in the day.
“She is unnaturally calm, Mr. Knox,” he said in confidence. “I
understand that the dead man was a cousin, but I almost suspect that she
was madly in love with him.”
I nodded shortly, admiring his acute intelligence.
“I think you are right, doctor,” I replied, “and if it is so, her
amazing fortitude is all the more admirable.”
“Admirable?” he echoed. “As I said before, she has the courage of ten
men.”
A formal dinner was out of the question, of course; indeed, no one
attempted to dress. Val Beverley excused herself, saying that she would
dine in Madame’s room, and Harley, Wessex, and I, partook of wine and
sandwiches in the library.
Inspector Aylesbury arrived about eight o’clock in a mood of repressed
irritation. Pedro showed him in to where the three of us were seated,
and:
“Good evening, gentlemen,” said he, “here I am, as arranged, but as I am
up to my eyes in work on the case, I will ask you, Mr. Harley, to carry
out this experiment of yours as quickly as possible.”
“No time shall be lost,” replied my friend, quietly. “May I request you
to accompany Detective-Inspector Wessex and Mr. Knox to the Guest House
by the high road? Do not needlessly alarm Mrs. Camber. Indeed, I
think you might confine your attention to Mrs. Powis. Merely request
permission to walk down the garden to the hut, and be good enough to
wait there until I join you, which will be in a few minutes after your
arrival.”
Inspector Aylesbury uttered an inarticulate, grunting sound, but I, who
knew Harley so well, could see that he felt himself to be upon the eve
of a signal triumph. What he proposed to do, I had no idea, save that
it was designed to clear Colin Camber. I prayed that it might also clear
his pathetic girl-wife; and in a sort of gloomy silence I set out with
Wessex and Aylesbury, down the drive, past the lodge, which seemed to be
deserted to-night, and along the tree-lined high road, cool and sweet in
the dusk of evening.
Aylesbury was very morose, and Wessex, who had lighted his pipe, did not
seem to be in a talkative mood either. He had the utmost faith in Paul
Harley, but it was evident enough that he was oppressed by the weight of
evidence against Camber. I divined the fact that he was turning over
in his mind the idea of the frame-up, and endeavouring to re-adjust the
established facts in accordance with this new point of view.
We were admitted to the Guest House by Mrs. Powis, a cheery old soul;
one of those born optimists whose special task in life seems to be that
of a friend in need.
As she opened the door, she smiled, shook her head, and raised her
finger to her lips.
“Be as quiet as you can, sir,” she said. “I have got her to sleep.”
She spoke of Mrs. Camber as one refers to a child, and, quite
understanding her anxiety:
“There will be no occasion to disturb her, Mrs. Powis,” I replied.
“We merely wish to walk down to the bottom of the garden to make a few
enquiries.”
“Yes, gentlemen,” she whispered, quietly closing the door as we all
entered the hall.
She led us through the rear portion of the house, and past the quarters
of Ah Tsong into that neglected garden which I remembered so well.
“There you are, sir, and may Heaven help you to find the truth.”
“Rest assured that the truth will be found, Mrs. Powis,” I answered.
Inspector Aylesbury cleared his throat, but Wessex, puffing at his pipe,
made no remark whatever until we were all come to the hut overhanging
the little ravine.
“This is where I found the rifle, Detective-Inspector,” explained
Aylesbury.
Wessex nodded absently.
It was another perfect night, with only a faint tracery of cloud to be
seen like lingering smoke over on the western horizon. Everything seemed
very still, so that although we were several miles from the railway
line, when presently a train sped on its way one might have supposed,
from the apparent nearness of the sound, that the track was no farther
off than the grounds of Cray’s Folly.
Toward those grounds, automatically, our glances were drawn; and we
stood there staring down at the ghostly map of the gardens, and all
wondering, no doubt, what Harley was doing and when he would be joining
us.
Very faintly I could hear the water of the little stream bubbling
beneath us. Then, just as this awkward silence was becoming intolerable,
there came a scraping and scratching from the shadows of the gully, and:
“Give me a hand, Knox!” cried the voice of Harley from below. “I want to
avoid the barbed wire if possible.”
He had come across country, and as I scrambled down the slope to meet
him I could not help wondering with what object he had sent us ahead by
the high road. Presently, when he came clambering up into the garden,
this in a measure was explained, for:
“You are all wondering,” he began, rapidly, “what I am up to, no doubt.
Let me endeavour to make it clear. In order that my test should be
conclusive, and in no way influenced by pre-knowledge of certain
arrangements which I had made, I sent you on ahead of me. Not wishing to
waste time, I followed by the shorter route. And now, gentlemen, let us
begin.”
“Good,” muttered Inspector Aylesbury.
“But first of all,” continued Harley, “I wish each one of you in turn
to look out of the window of the hut, and down into the Tudor garden of
Cray’s Folly. Will you begin, Wessex?”
Wessex, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and staring hard at the
speaker, nodded, entered the hut, and kneeling on the wooden seat,
looked out of the window.
“Open the panes,” said Harley, “so that you have a perfectly clear
view.”
Wessex slid the panes open and stared intently down into the valley.
“Do you see anything unusual in the garden?”
“Nothing,” he reported.
“And now, Inspector Aylesbury.”
Inspector Aylesbury stamped noisily across the little hut, and peered
out, briefly.
“I can see the garden,” he said.
“Can you see the sun-dial?”
“Quite clearly.”
“Good. And now you, Knox.”
I followed, filled with astonishment.
“Do you see the sun-dial?” asked Harley, again.
“Quite clearly.”
“And beyond it?”
“Yes, I can see beyond it. I can even see its shadow lying like a black
band on the path.”
“And you can see the yew trees?”
“Of course.”
“But nothing else? Nothing unusual?”
“Nothing.”
“Very well,” said Harley, tersely. “And now, gentlemen, we take to the
rough ground, proceeding due east. Will you be good enough to follow?”
Walking around the hut he found an opening in the hedge, and scrambled
down into the place where rank grass grew and through which he and I
on a previous occasion had made our way to the high road. To-night,
however, he did not turn toward the high road, but proceeded along the
crest of the hill.
I followed him, excited by the novelty of the proceedings. Wessex, very
silent, came behind me, and Inspector Aylesbury, swearing under his
breath, waded through the long grass at the rear.
“Will you all turn your attention to the garden again, please?” cried
Harley.
We all paused, looking to the right.
“Anything unusual?”
We were agreed that there was not.
“Very well,” said my friend. “You will kindly note that from this point
onward the formation of the ground prevents our obtaining any other view
of Cray’s Folly or its gardens until we reach the path to the valley,
or turn on to the high road. From a point on the latter the tower may
be seen but that is all. The first part of my experiment is concluded,
gentlemen. We will now return.”
Giving us no opportunity for comment, he plunged on in the direction of
the stream, and at a point which I regarded as unnecessarily difficult,
crossed it, to the great discomfiture of the heavy Inspector Aylesbury.
A few minutes later we found ourselves once more in the grounds of
Cray’s Folly.
Harley, evidently with a definite objective in view, led the way up the
terraces, through the rhododendrons, and round the base of the tower. He
crossed to the sunken garden, and at the top of the steps paused.
“Be good enough to regard the sun-dial from this point,” he directed.
Even as he spoke, I caught my breath, and I heard Aylesbury utter a sort
of gasping sound.
Beyond the sun-dial and slightly to the left of it, viewed from where we
stood, a faint, elfin light flickered, at a point apparently some four
or five feet above the ground!
“What’s this?” muttered Wessex.
“Follow again, gentlemen,” said Harley quietly.
He led the way down to the garden and along the path to the sun-dial.
This he passed, pausing immediately in front of the yew tree in which I
knew the bullet to be embedded.
He did not speak, but, extending his finger, pointed.
A piece of candle, some four inches long, was attached by means of a
nail to the bark of the tree, so that its flame burned immediately in
front of the bullet embedded there!
For perhaps ten seconds no one spoke; indeed I think no one moved. Then:
“Good God!” murmured Wessex. “You have done some clever things to my
knowledge, Mr. Harley, but this crowns them all.”
“Clever things!” said Inspector Aylesbury. “I think it’s a lot of damned
tomfoolery.”
“Do you, Inspector?” asked the Scotland Yard man, quietly. “I don’t. I
think it has saved the life of an innocent man.”
“What’s that? What’s that?” cried Aylesbury.
“This candle was burning here on the yew tree,” explained Harley, “at
the time that you looked out of the window of the hut. You could not see
it. You could not see it from the crest adjoining the Guest House--the
only other spot in the neighbourhood from which this garden is visible.
Now, since the course of a bullet is more or less straight, and since
the nature of the murdered man’s wound proves that it was not deflected
in any way, I submit that the one embedded in the yew tree before you
could not possibly have been fired from the Guest House! The second part
of my experiment, gentlemen, will be designed to prove from whence it
_was_ fired.”