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THE STOWMARKET MYSTERY
Or A Legacy of Hate
By LOUIS TRACY
AUTHOR OF
"Wings of the Morning,"
"The Final War,"
"An American Emperor,"
"Disappearance of Lady Delia," etc., etc.
1904
CONTENTS
I. "THE STOWMARKET MYSTERY"
II. DAVID HUME'S STORY
III. THE DREAM
IV. THROUGH THE LIBRARY WINDOW
V. FROM BEHIND THE HEDGE
VI. AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE
VII. HUSBAND AND WIFE
VIII. REVELATIONS
IX. THE KO-KATANA
X. THE BLACK MUSEUM
XI. MR. "OKASAKI"
XII. WHAT THE STATIONMASTER SAW
XIII. TWO WOMEN
XIV. MARGARET SPEAKS OUT
XV. AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR
XVI. THE COUSINS
XVII. "CHERCHEZ LA FEMME"
XVIII. FURTHER COMPLICATIONS
XIX. THE THIRD MAN APPEARS
XX. THE TRAIL
XXI. CONCERNING CHICKENS, AND MOTIVES
XXII. THE SECOND ATTACK
XXIII. MARGARET'S SECRET
XXIV. THE MEETING
XXV. WHERE DID MARGARET GO?
XXVI. MR. OOMA
XXVII. HOLDEN'S STORY
XXVIII. MR. AND MRS. JIRO
XXIX. MARGARET'S SECRET
XXX. HUSBAND AND WIFE
XXXI. TO BEECHCROFT
XXXII. THE FIGHT
XXXIII. THE LAST NOTE IN BRETT'S DIARY
A LEGACY OF HATE
CHAPTER I
"THE STOWMARKET MYSTERY"
"Mr. David Hume."
Reginald Brett, barrister-detective, twisted round in his easy-chair to
permit the light to fall clearly on the card handed to him by his
man-servant.
"What does Mr. David Hume look like, Smith?" he asked.
"A gentleman, sir."
Well-trained servants never make a mistake when they give such a
description of a visitor. Brett was satisfied.
"Produce him."
Then he examined the card.
"It is odd," he thought. "Mr. David Hume gives no address, and writes his
own cards. I like his signature, too. Now, I wonder--"
The door was thrown open. A tall, well-proportioned young man entered. He
was soberly attired in blue serge. His face and hands bore the impress of
travel and exposure. His expression was pleasing and attractive. In repose
his features were regular, and marked with lines of thought. A short,
well-trimmed beard, of the type affected by some naval men, gave him a
somewhat unusual appearance. Otherwise he carried himself like a British
cavalry officer in mufti.
He advanced into the room and bowed easily. Brett, who had risen,
instantly felt that his visitor was one of those people who erect
invisible barriers between themselves and strangers.
"My errand will occupy some time, perhaps half an hour, to permit of full
explanation," said Mr. Hume. "May I ask--"
"I am completely at your service. Take that chair. You will find it
comfortable. Do you smoke? Yes. Well, try those cigarettes. They are
better than they look."
Mr. Hume seemed to be gratified by this cordial reception. He seated
himself as requested, in the best light obtainable in a north-side
Victoria Street flat, and picked up the box of cigarettes.
"Turkish," he announced.
"Yes."
"Grown on a slope near Salonica."
"Indeed? You interest me."
"Oh, I know them well. I was there two months ago. I suppose you got these
as a present from Yildiz Kiosk?"
"Mr. Hume, you asked for half an hour, Make it an hour. You have touched
upon a subject dear to my heart."
"They are the best cigarettes in the world. No one can buy them. They are
made for the exclusive use of the Sultan's household. To attempt to export
them means the bastinado and banishment, at the least. I do not credit you
with employing agents on such terms, so I assume an Imperial gift."
The barrister had been looking intently at the other man during this short
colloquy. Suddenly his eyes sparkled. He struck a match and held it to his
visitor, with the words:
"You are quite right, Mr. David Hume-Frazer."
The person thus addressed neither started, nor sprang to his feet, nor
gasped in amazement He took the match, lit a cigarette, and said:
"So you know me?"
"Yes."
"It is strange. I have never previously met you to my knowledge. Am I
still a celebrity?"
"To me--yes."
"A sort of distinguished criminal, eh?"
"No man could be such a judge of tobacco and remain commonplace."
"'Pon my honour, Mr. Brett, I think you deserve your reputation. For the
first time during eighteen months I feel hopeful. Do you know, I passed
dozens of acquaintances in the streets yesterday and none of them knew me.
Yet you pick me out at the first glance, so to speak."
"They might do the same if you spoke to them, Mr.--"
"Hume, if you please."
"Certainly. Why have you dropped part of your surname?"
"It is a long story. My lawyers, Flint & Sharp, of Gray's Inn, heard of
your achievements in the cases of Lady Lyle and the Imperial Diamonds.
They persuaded me to come to you."
"Though, personally, you have little faith in me?"
"Heaven knows, Mr. Brett, I have had good cause to lose faith. My case
defies analysis. It savours of the supernatural."
The barrister shoved his chair sideways until he was able to reach a
bookcase, from which he took a bulky interleaved volume.
"Supernatural," he repeated. "That is new to me. As I remember the affair,
it was highly sensational, perplexing--a blend of romance and Japanese
knives--but I do not remember any abnormal element save one, utter absence
of motive."
"Do you mean to say that you possess a record of the facts?" inquired
Hume, exhibiting some tokens of excitement in face and voice as he watched
Brett turning over the leaves of the scrap-book, in which newspaper
cuttings were neatly pasted, some being freely annotated.
"Yes. The daily press supplies my demands in the way of fiction--a word,
by the way, often misapplied. Where do you find stranger tales than in the
records of every-day life? Ah, here we are!"
He searched through a large number of printed extracts. There were
comments, long reports, and not a few notes, all under the heading: "The
Stowmarket Mystery."
Hume was now deeply agitated; he evidently restrained his feelings by
sheer force of will.
"Mr. Brett," he said, and his voice trembled a little, "surely you could
not have expected my presence here this morning?"
"I no more expected you than the man in the moon," was the reply; "but I
recognised you at once. I watched your face for many hours whilst you
stood in the dock. Professional business took me to the Assizes during
your second trial. At one time I thought of offering my services."
"To me?"
"No, not to you."
"To whom, then?"
"To the police. Winter, the Scotland Yard man who had charge of the
business, is an old friend of mine."
"What restrained you?"
"Pity, and perhaps doubt. I could see no reason why you should kill your
cousin."
"But you believed me guilty?"
The barrister looked his questioner straight in the eyes. He saw there the
glistening terror of a tortured soul. Somehow he expected to find a
different expression. He was puzzled.
"Why have you come here, Mr. Hume?" he abruptly demanded.
"To implore your assistance. They tell me you are the one man in the world
able to clear my name from the stain of crime. Will you do it?"
Again their eyes met. Hume was fighting now, fighting for all that a man
holds dear. He did not plead. He only demanded his rights. Born a few
centuries earlier, he would have enforced them with cold steel.
"Come, Mr. Brett," he almost shouted. "If you are as good a judge of men
as you say I am of tobacco, you will not think that the cowardly murderer
who struck down my cousin would come to you, of all others, and reopen the
story of a crime closed unwillingly by the law."
Brett could, on occasion, exhibit an obstinate determination not to be
drawn into expressing an opinion. His visitor's masterful manner annoyed
him. Hume, metaphorically speaking, took him by the throat and compelled
his services. He rebelled against this species of compulsion, but mere
politeness required some display of courteous tolerance.
"It seems to me," he said, "that we are beginning at the end. I may not be
able to help you. What are the facts?"
The stranger was so agitated that he could not reply. Self-restrained men
are not ready with language. Their thoughts may be fiery as bottled
vitriol, but they keep the cork in. The barrister allowed for this
drawback. His sympathies were aroused, and they overcame his slight
resentment.
"Try another cigarette," he said, "I have here a summary of the evidence.
I will read it to you. Do not interrupt. Follow the details closely, and
correct anything that is wrong when I have ended."
Hume was still volcanic, but he took the proffered box.
"Ah," cried Brett, "though you are angry, your judgment is sound. Now
listen!"
Then he read the following statement, prepared by himself in an idle
moment:--
"The Stowmarket Mystery is a strange mixture of the real and the unreal.
Sir Alan Hume-Frazer, fourth baronet, met his death on the hunting-field.
His horse blundered at a brook and the rider was impaled on a hidden
stake, placed in the stream by his own orders to prevent poachers from
netting trout. His wife, née Somers, a Bristol family, had pre-deceased
him.
"There were two children, a daughter, Margaret, aged twenty-five, and a
son, Alan, aged twenty-three. By his will, Sir Alan left all his real and
personal estate to his son, with a life charge of £1,000 per annum for the
daughter. As he was a very wealthy man, almost a millionaire, the
provision for his daughter was niggardly, which might be accounted for by
the fact that the girl, several years before her father's death,
quarrelled with him and left home, residing in London and in Florence.
Both children, by the way, were born in Italy, where Sir Alan met and
married Miss Somers.
"The old gentleman, it appeared, allowed Miss Hume-Frazer £5,000 per annum
during his life. His son voluntarily continued this allowance, but the
brother and sister continued to live apart, he devoted to travel and
sport, she to music and art, with a leaning towards the occult--a woman
divorced from conventionality and filled with a hatred of restraint.
"Beechcroft, the family residence, is situated four miles from Stowmarket,
close to the small village of Sleagill. After his father's death, the
young Sir Alan went for a protracted tour round the world. Meanwhile his
first cousin, Mr. David Hume-Frazer, lived at Beechcroft during the
shooting season, and incidentally fell in love with Miss Helen Layton,
daughter of the rector of Sleagill, the Rev. Wilberforce Layton."
Hume stirred uneasily in his chair, and the barrister paused, expecting
him to say something. But the other only gasped brokenly: "Go on; go on!"
"Love lasts longer than death or crime," mused Brett.
He continued:
"In eighteen months Sir Alan the fifth--all heirs had same name--returned
to Beechcroft, about Christmas. His cousin had been called away on family
business, but returned for a New Year's Eve ball, given by Mrs. Eastham, a
lady of some local importance. Sir Alan and Helen Layton had followed the
hounds together three times during Christmas week. They were, of course,
old friends.
"David sent from Scotland--his father's estate was situated close to
Inverness--some presents to his future wife, his cousin, and others. The
gift to Sir Alan was noteworthy and fatalistic--a handsomely inlaid
Japanese sword, with a small dagger inserted in a sheath near the top of
the scabbard. David reached Beechcroft on the day of the ball. Relations
between the cousins seemed to the servants to be cool, though the coolness
lay rather with the baronet, and David, a year older, it may be here
stated, was evidently taken by surprise by Sir Alan's attitude.
"The three young people went to the ball, and shortly after midnight there
was something in the nature of a scene. Sir Alan had been dancing with
Miss Layton. They were in the conservatory when the young lady burst into
tears, hurried to find David, and asked him to take her at once to her
carriage. Mrs. Eastham was acting as chaperon to the girl, and some heated
words passed between her and the two young men.
"Evidence showed that Sir Alan had bitterly upbraided Miss Layton on
account of her engagement, and hinted that David had taken an unfair
advantage of his (Alan's) absence to win her affections. This was
absolutely untrue. It was denied by the two most concerned, and by Mrs.
Eastham, who, as a privileged friend, knew all the facts. The young men
were in a state of white heat, but David sensibly withdrew, and walked to
the Hall.
"Mrs. Eastham's house was close to the lodge gates, and from the lodge a
straight yew-shaded drive led to the library windows, the main entrance
being at the side of the house.
"In the library a footman, on duty in the room, maintained a good fire,
and the French windows were left unfastened, as the young gentlemen would
probably enter the house that way. David did, in fact, do so. The footman
quitted the room, and a few minutes later the butler appeared. He was an
old favourite of David's. He asked if he should send some whisky and soda.
"The young man agreed, adding:
"'Sir Alan and I have commenced the year badly, Ferguson. We quarrelled
over a silly mistake. I have made up my mind not to sleep on it, so I will
await his arrival. Let me know if he comes in the other way.'
"The butler hoped that the matter was not a serious one.
"'Under other circumstances it might be,' was the answer, 'but as things
are, it is simply a wretched mistake, which a little reasonable discussion
will put right.'
"The footman brought the whisky and soda.
"Twenty minutes later he re-entered the room to attend to the fire. Mr.
David Hume-Frazer was curled up in an arm-chair asleep, or rather dozing,
for he stirred a little when the man put some coal in the grate. This was
at 1 a.m. exactly.
"At 1.10 a.m. the butler thought he heard his master's voice coming from
the front of the house, and angrily protesting something. Unfortunately he
could not catch a single word. He imagined that the 'quarrel' spoken of by
David had been renewed.
"He waited two minutes, not more, but hearing no further sounds, he walked
round to the library windows, thinking that perhaps he would see Sir Alan
in the room.
"To his dismay he found his young master stretched on the turf at the side
of the drive, thirty feet from the house. He rushed into the library,
where David was still asleep and moving uneasily--muttering, the man
thought:
"'Come quickly, sir,' he cried, 'I fear something has happened to Sir
Alan. He is lying on the ground outside the house, and I cannot arouse
him.'
"Then David Hume-Frazer sprang to his feet and shouted:
"'My God! It was not a dream. He is murdered!'
"Unquestionably--"
But the barrister's cold-blooded synopsis of a thrilling crime proved to
be too much for his hearer's nerves. Hume stood up. The man was a born
fighter. He could take his punishment, but only on his feet.
Again he cried in anguish:
"No! It was no dream, but a foul murder. And they blame me!"