A SHOT IN THE DARK
The case was one that fascinated Cleek, and as it seemed absolutely
certain that Sir Edgar would not venture back within the precincts of
home that night, both he and Mr. Narkom prepared to make another
investigation of Cheyne Court. Constable Roberts and Dollops were
patrolling the forked lanes, and thanks to the latter's supply of
"tickle tootsies" as he persisted in terming them and which were really
an ingenious invention of his own consisting of slabs of brown paper
well smothered with molasses, there was no fear of any one being able to
approach without being seen.
A brisk two minutes' walk brought them to the picturesque house with its
ivy-wrapped walls, dark Gothic windows, and quaintly carved
chimney-pots. A medieval appearance was strengthened by a deep moat,
long since dried up, but which gave it the air of an old-world castle. A
ruined drawbridge completed the resemblance, though the actual date of
its erection was certainly not in the bygone ages.
Cleek and Mr. Narkom had hardly approached the western side, where
Constable Roberts had been stationed on guard, when that official came
rushing toward them, breathing hard with excitement, his eyes nearly
starting from his head.
"A shot, sir," he gasped. "As true as I'm 'ere, I heard a shot fired
from somewhere, and a man rushed by me in the lane down there, waving
his arms wildly, and then 'e vanished."
"Couldn't you catch a glimpse of him?" rapped out Cleek briskly. "What
was he, a labourer, gentleman, or what?"
"Couldn't say, sir. I had turned my back, and was looking up at the
blessed house, when I 'ears the sound of a shot, be'ind me it seemed,
and round I spins, and next I knows was my helmet knocked down on my
'ead, and a man sprinting down the lane for dear life. By the time I'd
got it lifted, 'e was gone."
"H'm! Sure it was a man?" asked Cleek, as the three men came out once
more into the lane.
"Well!" said the police-constable, startled by this new hypothesis. "Now
you speak, sir--the footsteps was light enough and there was a precious
fine scent."
Before he could volunteer any further ideas, he caught sight of
something which apparently drove them all from his head.
In his excitement he gripped the arm of Mr. Narkom, oblivious for the
time being of their relative positions. "Look, sir," he said, "blest if
there ain't somebody got into the 'ouse now, though 'ow they've bin and
done it, beats me!"
Only a minute before the house had loomed up dark and cheerless, without
a single sign of habitation. Now in the lower room known both by Cleek
and the superintendent to be the dining room, someone was obviously
walking about with a light held in one hand. For a moment all three
stood stock-still gaping at one another in blank amazement, then Cleek
spoke.
"Come on," said he, through clenched teeth, "not a sound if you can help
it, and look if there are any strange footprints."
"The place is alive with footprints!" ejaculated Constable Roberts, as
he turned the light of his bull's-eye downward and it revealed
unmistakable traces on the soft, yielding earth. They led right up to
the edge of the marble terrace. "Look, sir, this is the way he come down
the lane, up this path and straight ahead. Come on!"
Straight down the narrow path they went without break or interruption,
shielded by the overshadowing trees, their eyes bent on the countless
footprints which followed each other down the centre in one long
unbroken line leading right to the house.
Suddenly at the front steps they stopped short, and Cleek and Narkom
stopped also, for from the steps they took another direction altogether,
wheeling about sharply and leading toward the terrace where they seemed
to terminate.
But Constable Roberts was keenly on the look-out, being a dutiful
policeman if a trifle slow.
"Here they are again, sir," he whispered, pointing to the left along the
terrace where, since the previous night's rain, the thick dust had
evidently been laid. "See, 'ere's where 'e went, right over this blessed
wall. Ten chances to one but what 'e's cut 'isself with all that broken
glass at the top. Fancy finding broken glass on a marble bannister!" He
snorted under his breath as he lifted himself over the low balustrade
after pushing the glass aside. "Mind 'ow you come, gents. Fair copped
him out, as sure as guns is guns. Better let me go first, 'e's in there
right enough. You can see the light moving about."
A single look was enough to convince Cleek and Mr. Narkom of the truth
of the constable's words, and in an instant they had sprung up, gripped
the edge of the wall, scrambled over it and dropped down on the marble
terrace beneath. In the room, of which Sir Edgar had acknowledged
breaking the glass of the window, thin, wavering lines of constantly
shifting light could be seen through the chinks of the wooden shutters.
But so well had the wooden barriers been nailed up, that it was
impossible to see anything more than this shifting streak of light, and
Cleek, abandoning the attempt, led a swift flight round to the back of
the building. To the intense astonishment of them all they found a small
side door, not only unlocked, but ajar. Through this they made their way
down a passage and up into the hall to the dining room. The thin streak
of light beneath the door told them that their quarry was still there,
run to earth at last. They stopped for a moment, their nerves strung to
breaking point, their hearts beating wildly as they thought of what lay
before them.
Only for a brief second they paused, then Cleek's head went up.
"Now," he whispered, and in they went, with a rush that sent the old
panelled door crashing back on its hinges with a queer sort of groan.
But again, as on the previous day, no figure at bay rose to fight them.
Once more only the squeal and rustle of countless mice behind the
oak-panelled walls came to their listening ears.
To all appearances the dining room was exactly in the same condition as
when Cleek had first entered it with the girl they now were seeking so
strenuously. The room was empty. A guttering candle contrasted strangely
with the rich polished mahogany of the table on which it had been
placed, but its faint light revealed no living thing.
They stared at one another in mute astonishment, then Cleek switched on
his electric torch and swept it from ceiling to floor.
It swung around like a miniature searchlight, then stopped abruptly, and
ejaculations of horror fell from the lips of the watching men.
On the hearth-rug on the opposite side of the room from where they
stood, half hidden by the great divan chair, lay the figure of a woman.
The life-blood was oozing from a gun-wound above the breast and it
needed only one brief glance to tell them that she was already past
their aid! Blankly they stared into each other's faces as recognition
came.
"Miss Cheyne!"
Hideous fact though it was, there could be no doubt as to her identity.
The golden, curled hair, the beringed hands were identically the same as
Cleek had seen, and it seemed to his almost dazed senses, seen in the
same position--just a month ago in the ballroom! It was the same woman
who had driven the constable and himself away, barely an hour after
that dreadful discovery and certainly the same who had glared at them so
threateningly on the previous day!
Yet here she was in an apparently empty house.
For a moment all three men stood staring in appalled silence.
Then Constable Roberts backed shudderingly away.
"The Lord deliver us," he said in a quaking whisper. "It's Miss Cheyne
herself, sir, and dead just as the young officer said a month ago."
At any other time Cleek would have noted this compliment paid to his
disguise, but now he stood staring down at the grimly grotesque figure,
all the colour drained from his lips and cheeks.
"How and when did she come back? Where did she hide herself yesterday?"
said Constable Roberts, in hushed, awed tones. Nobody answered him.
Nobody seemed to have heard. For Cleek and Mr. Narkom the discovery
threatened to possess an even more tragic importance. In the finding of
this woman shot to the heart they recognized that the deed threatened by
Sir Edgar Brenton but a few short hours ago had now indeed been
committed.
"Good Heavens!" gasped out Mr. Narkom at last, his lips dry, his voice
tense and strained, "and so we came too late. No wonder we waited in
vain. Poor boy, poor boy, the mystery is at an end."
"On the contrary, my friend," flung back Cleek sharply, a bright spot of
colour showing in each cheek, "I venture to think it has only just
begun. Constable Roberts, search this house first, then mount guard.
Don't let any one enter or leave it. If any living man or woman comes
near, arrest them, no matter who they are. But don't leave the place
unguarded for a single instant. A doctor must be fetched and Dollops
must find him.
"Thank goodness Sir Edgar is in London and can supply an alibi," he
added, almost under his breath.
But Constable Roberts turned on his heel as he caught the words, the
ruddy colour deserting his face, leaving it white and strained.
"Beggin' your pardon, sir, but that's just what 'e ain't. I passed the
station on my way here, and there was Sir Edgar 'imself on top of the
steps. 'E must 'ave come in by the 9:10 train and 'e didn't see me, but
I see 'im as plain as life. Lord pray someone else saw 'im, too!"
Speaking, he turned and left the room, and as Mr. Narkom gazed at Cleek,
their mutual feeling showed only too visibly on their white, tense
faces.
So the unhappy boy had taken matters into his own hands after all. That
matter was only too clear. He might have gone to town, true enough, but
only waited there long enough for it to get dark, that he might be free
and undisturbed in his task of revenge.
"There's no help for it, Cleek," said the Superintendent with a little
shrug of despair. "I would have given one hundred pounds to have
prevented it, but----"
His voice trailed off and he let the rest of the sentence go by default.
Without further comment he turned and hurried out of the room. Already
he could hear Constable Roberts tramping from floor to floor in a vain
search for something in the nature of a murderer, and could not help
thinking once more as he went out into the blackness of the night of the
tragedy that this hot-headed boy had brought upon his house.
Cleek followed slowly. It took him but a second to get back into the
lane, but there was no sign of Dollops, nor did the familiar hoot of a
night-owl, Cleek's favourite signal, bring forth any reply. Dollops
indeed had vanished as if the earth had opened and swallowed him up.