THE DREAM
"Thank you," was the quiet answer.
"You hinted at some supernatural influence in relation to this crime. What
did you mean?"
"Ah, that is the unpublished part of the affair. We are a Scots family, as
our name implies. The first Sir Alan Frazer became a baronet owing to his
services to King George during the '45 Rebellion. There was some trouble
about a sequestered estate--now our place in Scotland--which belonged to
his wife's brother, a Hume and a rebel. Anyhow, in 1763, he fought a duel
with Hume's son, his own nephew by marriage, and was killed."
"Really," broke in Brett, "this ancient history--"
"Is quite to the point. Sir Alan the first fought and died in front of the
library at Beechcroft."
The barrister commenced to study the moulding in the centre of the
ceiling.
"He was succeeded by his grandson, a little lad of eight. In 1807, after a
heavy drinking bout, the second Sir Alan Hume-Frazer cut his throat, and
chose the scene of his ancestor's duel for the operation."
"A remarkable coincidence!"
"In 1842, during a bread riot, the third baronet was stabbed with a
pitchfork whilst facing a mob in the same place. Then a long interval
occurred. Again a small child became the heir. Three years ago the fourth
baronet expired whilst the library windows were being opened to admit the
litter on which he was carried from the hunting-field. The fate of the
fifth you know."
Brett's chair emitted a series of squeaks as he urged it closer to the
wall. At the proper distance he stretched out his leg and pressed an
electric bell with his toe.
"Decanters and syphons, Smith," he cried, when the door opened.
"Which do you take, whisky or brandy, Mr. Hume?" he inquired.
"Whisky. But I assure you I am quite serious. These things--"
"Serious! If my name were Hume-Frazer, nothing less than a runaway
steam-engine would take me to Beechcroft. I have never previously heard
such a marvellous recital."
"We are a stiff-necked race. My uncle and cousin knew how strangely Fate
had pursued every heir to the title, yet each hoped that in his person the
tragic sequence would be broken. Oddly enough, my father holds that the
family curse, or whatever it is, has now exhausted itself."
"What grounds has he for the belief?"
"None, save a Highlander's readiness to accept signs and portents. Look at
this seal."
He unfastened from his waistcoat his watch and chain, with a small bunch
of pendants attached, and handed them to Brett. The latter examined the
seal with deep interest. It was cut into a bloodstone, and showed a stag's
head, surmounted by five pointed rays, like a crown of daggers.
"I cannot decipher the motto," he said; "what is it?"
"Fortis et audax."
"Hum! 'Strong and bold.' A stiff-necked legend, too."
He reached to his bookcase for Burke's "General Armoury." After a brief
search, he asked:
"Do you know anything about heraldry?"
"Nothing whatever."
"Then listen to this. The crest of your, house is: 'A stag's head, erased
argent, charged with a star of five rays gules.' It is peculiar."
"Yes, so my father says; but why does it appeal to you in that way?"
"Because 'erased' means, in this instance, a stag's head torn forcibly
from the body, the severed part being jagged like the teeth of a saw. And
'gules' means 'red.' Now, such heraldic rays are usually azure or blue."
"By Jove, you have hit upon the old man's idea. He contends that those
five blood-coloured points signify the founder of the baronetcy and his
four lineal descendants. Moreover, the race is now extinct in the direct
succession. The title goes to a collateral branch."
Brett stroked his chin thoughtfully.
"It is certainly very strange," he murmured, "that the dry-as-dust
knowledge of some member of the College of Heralds should evolve these
armorial bearings with their weird significance. Does this account for
your allusion to the supernatural?"
"Partly. Do not forget my dream."
"Tell it to me."
"During the trials, my counsel, a very able man, by the way--you know him,
of course, Mr. Dobbie, K.C.--only referred to the fact that I dreamed my
cousin was in some mortal danger, and that my exclamation 'He is
murdered!' was really a startled comment on my part induced by the
butler's words. That is not correct. I never told Mr. Dobbie the details
of my dream, or vision."
"Oh, didn't you? Men have been hanged before to-day because they thought
they could construct a better line of defence than their counsel."
"I had nothing to defend. I was innocent. Moreover, I knew I should not be
convicted."
The barrister well remembered the view of the case taken by the Bar mess.
Even the redoubtable Dobbie was afraid of the jury. His face must have
conveyed dubiety with respect to Hume's last remark, for the other
continued eagerly:
"It is quite true. Wait until I have concluded. After the footman brought
the whisky and soda to the library that night I took a small quantity, and
pulled an easy-chair in front of the fire. I was tired, having travelled
all the preceding night and part of the day. Hence the warmth and comfort
soon sent me to sleep. I have a hazy recollection of the man coming in to
put some coal on the fire. In a sub-conscious fashion I knew that it was
not my cousin, but a servant. I settled down a trifle more comfortably,
and everything became a blank. Then I thought I awoke. I looked out
through the windows, and, to my astonishment, it was broad daylight. The
trees, too, were covered with leaves, the sun was shining, and there was
every evidence of a fine day in early summer. In some indefinite way I
realised that the library was no longer the room which I knew. The
furniture and carpets were different. The books were old-fashioned. A very
handsome spinning-wheel stood near the open window. There was no litter of
newspapers or magazines.
"Before I could begin to piece together these curious discrepancies in the
normal condition of things, I saw two men riding up the avenue, where the
yew trees, by the way, were loftier and finer in every way than those
really existing. The horsemen were dressed in such strange fashion that,
unfortunately, I paid little heed to their faces. They wore frilled
waistcoats, redingotes with huge lapels and turned-back cuffs,
three-cornered hats, and gigantic boots. They dismounted when close to the
house. One man held both horses; the other advanced. I was just going to
look him straight in the face when another figure appeared, coming from
that side of the hall where the entrance is situated. This was a gentleman
in very elegant garments, hatless, with powdered queue, pink satin coat
embroidered with lace, pink satin small-clothes, white silk stockings, and
low shoes. As he walked, a smart cane swung from his left wrist by a silk
tassel, and he took a pinch of snuff from an ivory box.
"The two men met and seemed to have a heated argument, bitter and
passionate on one side, studiously scornful on the other. This was all in
dumb show. Not a word did I hear. My amazed wits were fully taken up with
noting their clothes, their postures, the trappings of the horses, the
eighteenth century aspect of the library. Strange, is it not, I did not
look at their faces?"
Hume paused to gulp down the contents of his tumbler. Brett said not a
word, but sat intent, absorbed, wondering, with eyes fixed on the speaker.
"All at once the dispute became vehement. The more stylishly attired man
disappeared, but returned instantly with a drawn sword in his hand. The
stranger, as we may call him, whipped out a claymore, and the two fought
fiercely. By Jove, it was no stage combat or French duel. They went for
each other as if they meant it. There was no stopping to take breath, nor
drawing apart after a foiled attack. Each man tried to kill the other as
speedily as possible. Three times they circled round in furious
sword-play. Then the stranger got his point home. The other, in mortal
agony, dropped his weapon, and tried with both hands to tear his
adversary's blade from his breast. He failed, and staggered back, the
victor still shoving the claymore through his opponent's body. Then, and
not until then, I saw the face of the man who was wounded, probably
killed. It was my cousin, Alan Hume-Fraser."
David Hume stopped again. His bronzed face was pale now. With his left
hand he swept huge drops of perspiration from his brow. But his class
demands coolness in the most desperate moments. He actually struck a match
and relighted his cigarette.
"I suppose you occasionally have a nightmare after an indigestible supper,
Mr. Brett," he went on, "and have experienced a peculiar sensation of dumb
palsy in the presence of some unknown but terrifying danger? Well, such
was my exact state at that moment. Alan fell, apparently lifeless. The
stranger kissed his blood-stained sword, which required a strong tug
before he could disengage it, rattled it back into the scabbard, rejoined
his companion, and the two rode off, without once looking back. I can see
them now, square-shouldered, with hair tied in a knot beneath their quaint
hats, their hips absurdly swollen by the huge pockets of their coats,
their boots hanging over their knees. They wore big brass spurs with
tremendous rowels, and the cantles of their saddles were high and
brass-bound.
"Alan lay motionless. I could neither speak nor move. Whether I was
sitting or standing I cannot tell you, nor do I know how I was supposed to
be attired. A darkness came over my eyes. Then a voice--Helen's
voice--whispered to me, 'Fear not, dearest; the wrong is avenged.' I
awoke, to find the trembling butler shouting in my ear that his master was
lying dead outside the house. Now, Mr. Brett, I ask you, would you have
submitted that fairy tale to a jury? I was quite assured of a verdict in
my favour, though the first disagreement almost shook my faith in Helen's
promise, but I did not want to end my days in a criminal lunatic asylum."
He did not appear to expect an answer. He was quite calm again, and even
his eyes had lost their intensity. The mere telling of his uncanny
experience had a soothing effect. He nonchalantly readjusted his watch and
chain, and noted the time.
"I have gone far beyond my stipulated half hour," he said, forcing a
deprecatory smile.
"Yes; far beyond, indeed. You carried me back to 1763, but Heaven alone
knows when you will end."
"Will you take up my case?"
"Can you doubt it? Do you think I would throw aside the most remarkable
criminal puzzle I have ever tackled?"
"Mr. Brett, I cannot find words to thank you. If you succeed--and you
inspire me with confidence--Helen and I will strive to merit your lifelong
friendship."
"Miss Layton knows the whole of your story, of course?"
"Yes; she and my father only. I must inform you that I had never heard the
full reason of the duel between the first Sir Alan and his nephew. But my
father knew it fairly well, and the details fitted in exactly with my
vision. I can hardly call it a dream."
"What was the nephew's name?"
"David Hume!"
Brett jumped up, and paced about the room.
"These coincidences defy analysis," he exclaimed. "Your Christian name is
David. Your surname joins both families. Why, the thing is a romance of
the wildest sort."
"Unhappily, it has a tragic side for me."
"Yes; the story cannot end here. You and your _fiancée_ have suffered.
Miss Layton must be a very estimable young lady--one worth winning. She
will be a true and loyal wife."
"Do you think you will be able to solve the riddle? Someone murdered my
cousin."
"That is our only solid fact at present. The family tradition is passing
strange, but it will not serve in a court of law. I may fail, for the
first time, but I will try hard. When can you accompany me to Stowmarket?"
The question disconcerted his eager auditor. The young man's countenance
clouded.
"Is it necessary that I should go there?" he asked.
"Certainly. You must throw aside all delicacy of feeling, sacrifice even
your own sentiments. That is the one locality where you don't wish to be
seen, of course?"
"It is indeed."
"I cannot help that. I must have the assistance of your local and family
knowledge to decide the knotty points sure to arise when I begin the
inquiry. Can you start this afternoon?"
"Yes."
"Very well. Come and lunch with me at my club. Then we will separate, to
meet again at Liverpool Street. Smith! Pack my traps for a week."
Brett was in the hall now, but he suddenly stopped his companion.
"By the way, Hume, you may like to wire to Miss Layton. My man will send
the telegram for you."
David Hume's barrier of proud reserve vanished from that instant. The
kindly familiarity of the barrister's words to one who, during many weary
days, suspected all men of loathing him as a murderer at large, was
directed by infinite tact.
Hume held out his hand, "You _are_ a good chap," he said.