The Hand in the Dark

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The detective appreciated the estimation in which the old man held him,
and the fact did not tend to lessen his own irritation.

"What did you want me for?" he curtly asked.

"I did not want you, but the gentlemen in the library do. Superintendent
Merrington thought you had been a long time away, and he sent me down to
the village to look for you. He is anxious to return to London. You will
find him in the library."

The butler's cool assumption that it was Merrington's privilege to
command, and Caldew's duty to obey, nettled the latter considerably. He
felt that Merrington had, in his offensive way, deliberately asserted
his official authority in order to humiliate him in his native place.
Acting on the impulse of anger he replied:

"I have some things to attend to before I can see him. You can tell him
so, if you like."

He walked away towards the hall door, conscious that the butler was
standing stationary by the stairs, watching him. When he got outside, he
turned his steps towards the garden; but brief as had been the interval
since he had seen Musard and Miss Heredith conversing together by the
sundial, it had been sufficient to bring the conversation to a
conclusion. Miss Heredith was no longer to be seen, and Musard was
sauntering along the gravel walk smoking a cigar.

Had they seen him at the window, and broken off their conference in
consequence? It looked as if this were so. Miss Heredith must have
entered the house by another door, because if she had gone in by the
front door he must have encountered her. Caldew would have retraced his
steps if Musard had not looked up, and, seeing the detective, waited for
him to approach.

Caldew walked towards him, wondering whether Miss Heredith had missed
her chain of charms, and had gone upstairs to find it. In that case, he
reflected grimly, the position of the previous night was reversed, and
this time it was she who was forestalled. It was an ironical situation,
truly, but he was to some extent the master of it.

Musard nodded to the detective and proffered his cigarcase. Caldew
accepted a cigar and admired the case, which was made of crocodile skin,
worked and dressed in a manner altogether new to him. He had never seen
anything like it in London tobacconists' shops, and he said so.

"Native manufacture," replied Musard, selecting a fresh cigar. "My
Chinese boy shot the crocodile which provided it. It's a rare thing for
a Chinese to be a good shot with a modern English rifle, but my boy
would carry off anything at Bisley. He never misses. It was lucky for me
that he didn't that time, because the brute came along to bag me while I
was swimming in a river. Suey, hearing me call, ran out from the tent
with my rifle, and shot him from the bank. He got him through the
eye--the eye and the throat are the only two vulnerable spots in a
crocodile. A bullet will rebound off the head as off a rock."

"Where did this happen?" asked Caldew, in an interested tone. His own
knowledge of crocodiles was confined to the fact that he had once seen a
small one in a tank at the Zoological Gardens.

"In Zambesi. There are plenty of them there in the rivers and mango
swamps. Some hunters stake a dog overnight by the river bank, and the
animal gives them warning of the approach of the reptiles by howling
with terror. It is rather cruel--to the dog."

"Undoubtedly," said Caldew.

"How are you getting on with your investigations in this case?"
continued Musard, abruptly changing the conversation.

Caldew was instantly wary, and stiffened into an attitude of official
reserve, wondering why Musard should seek to question him about the
murder.

"I am an old friend of the Herediths," continued Musard, as though
divining the other's thoughts. "This murder is a very terrible thing for
them. I am afraid it may mean Sir Philip's death-blow. He is old and
feeble, and the shock, and his son's illness, have had a very bad effect
on him. I should have gone to France to-day for the War Office, but I
arranged for somebody to go in my place in order to remain with the
family in their hour of trial. Have you found out anything which leads
you to suppose you are on the track of the murdered?"

"I am afraid I cannot tell you anything about the investigations,"
replied the detective cautiously. "I am not in charge of the case, you
know."

"I understand," rejoined the other, with a nod. "Perhaps I should not
have asked you. My anxiety must be my excuse."

He uttered this apology so courteously and pleasantly that Caldew felt
momentarily ashamed of his own rigidly official attitude. But his
instincts of caution quickly reasserted themselves, and he told himself
that in this sinister case it was his business to be on his guard and
talk to nobody.

The situation was terminated by the reappearance of Miss Heredith from a
door at the side of the house. The detective was a little surprised to
see her again, for he had conceived the idea that she had gone indoors
to avoid meeting him. She went eagerly to Musard without noticing him.

"Oh, Vincent!" she exclaimed, and the look of relief on her face was
unmistakable. "Sir Ralph Horton is just leaving. He says that Phil has
passed the crisis, and there is no need for him to stay any longer. Phil
still needs great care and attention, but Sir Ralph says it will be
quite safe to leave him in Dr. Holmes's hands. There is no fear for his
brain, thank God."

"This is good news," said Musard. "Have you told Sir Philip?"

"Not yet. I thought it better to defer it until after dinner. I want you
to tell him then."

Miss Heredith turned as though to re-enter the house, but Caldew, who
had been hovering a few paces away within earshot of this dialogue,
approached her with the gold chain in his hand.

"Excuse me, Miss Heredith," he said. "One of the maids told me that you
no longer occupied the room upstairs in the left wing, so I took the
liberty of going in there to see if it was possible for the murderer to
have escaped by clambering from the window of one room to another, and
while I was there I found this chain. It was hanging out of a drawer of
the toilet-table near the window, and as it had obviously been forgotten
I thought I had better restore it to you."

He held it out to her as he finished speaking, keenly watching her face
for some sign of confusion or trepidation. But Miss Heredith received
the chain calmly, and thanked him for returning it. Caldew was
disappointed at the failure of his test, but he essayed a further shot.

"I noticed a very peculiar little image among the charms on the chain,"
he said hesitatingly. "I have never seen anything like it before, and I
couldn't help wondering where it came from."

It was a clumsy trap, and he realized it, but he was too anxious to
achieve his end by more subtle methods. There was nothing in Miss
Heredith's calm countenance to suggest that she was alarmed or uneasy at
his curiosity. She turned to Musard.

"Mr. Caldew means the strange little image you gave me when you arrived,
Vincent. What is it?"

She held out the chain, and the explorer took it in his big brown hand.
He separated the image from the other charms with his forefinger, and
turned it over carelessly.

"That is a tiki," he said.

The explanation conveyed nothing to Caldew.

"I have never heard the word before," he said. "What is a tiki?"

"It is the Maori word for the creator of man, and is also taken to
represent an ancestor," Musard explained. "The Maoris are to some extent
ancestor worshippers, and adorn their pahs and temples with large wooden
images of immense size, supposed to represent some renowned fighting
ancestor. These images are worshipped as gods, and are believed to be
visited by the spirits, who ascend to converse with them by the hollow
roots of a pohutukawa tree, which descends into the Maori nether
regions. The smaller tikis, or, more strictly speaking, hei-tiki, such
as this, are carved as representations in miniature of the larger
images, and are worn as neck ornaments. They are supposed to render the
wearer immune from the wicked designs of evil spirits."

"From what material are they carved?" said Caldew, who had followed this
explanation attentively. "I have never seen anything resembling it. It
seems as clear and colourless as glass, but it emits a faint greenish
lustre, and there are black flecks in it."

"It is nephrite, or Maori greenstone," replied Musard. "London jewellers
term it New Zealand jade."

"Surely this stone is not jade?" said Caldew, in some surprise. "I have
seen New Zealand jade ornaments in London shops, but they were made from
a dull deep greenstone, not a bit like this stone, which is clear as
crystal, and has a lustre."

"There are different sorts of jade," replied Musard. "The present craze
of Society women is for Chinese pink jade and tourmalin. A good pink
jade necklace will readily bring a thousand pounds in Bond Street, and
it is going to be the fashionable jewel of the season. New Zealand
nephrite has not yet come into popular favour with English ladies, and
only the commoner dark green variety, which is frequently spurious, is
seen here. This image was made of the rarer kind of pounamu, as the
Maoris call it."

"It is very pretty," said Caldew. "Have you any more of it?" He
flattered himself that the assumption of carelessness in his tone was
not overdone.

"No," replied Musard. "It was the only piece of the rare kind I was ever
lucky enough to obtain."

"There was another small piece, Vincent," remarked Miss Heredith. "You
brought it about ten years ago. It was the same kind of transparent
stone, with black flecks in it."

"I had forgotten. I gave it to Phil, didn't I? What did he do with it?"

"He had it made into a brooch for Hazel Rath, and gave it to her as a
birthday gift."

CHAPTER XII

As Caldew returned to the house for his interview with Merrington, the
one clear impression on his mind was that the discovery of the owner of
the missing brooch was the starting point in the elucidation of the
murder.

In the library he found Superintendent Merrington, Captain Stanhill,
Inspector Weyling, and Sergeant Lumbe. The sergeant, who looked tired
and dirty, was apologetically explaining that his visit to Tibblestone
had been fruitless.

"I had my journey for nothing," he was saying in his thick country
voice, as Caldew entered. "I had a wild goose chase all over the place,
and then it turned out that this chap Mr. Hawkins telephoned about was
only a canvasser for In Memoriam cards for fallen soldiers. I come
across him at last sitting by the roadside eating his dinner and reading
a London picture paper. He looked a doubtful sort of a customer, sure
enough, but he was able to prove that he was playing bagatelle in the
inn last night at the time the murder was committed."

Superintendent Merrington dismissed this information with a nod, and
turned to Caldew.

"Did you interview Mrs. Weyne?" he asked.

"They were not in," was the reply. "I was told they had motored to the
moat-house. Did you see them?"

Superintendent Merrington frowned. He had not seen the Weynes, and he
had not been informed of their visit. It was another addition to the sum
of untoward incidents which had happened to him since his arrival at the
moat-house, and he felt very dissatisfied and wrathful.

"I am returning to London by the next train, Caldew," he said, in his
authoritative voice. "Official business of importance demands my
immediate presence. I will have some inquiries made at Scotland Yard
about the people who have been staying here. In the meantime, you had
better remain on the spot and continue your inquiries under the Chief
Constable."

"I shall be very glad of Detective Caldew's help in unravelling this
terrible mystery," Captain Stanhill remarked courteously.

Caldew drew several conclusions from his chief's speech. Merrington was
puzzled about the case, but had no intention of taking him into his
counsel. Merrington believed that the murderer had got clear away, and,
therefore, further local investigation was useless, but he deemed it
advisable to keep a Scotland Yard man on the scene to watch for possible
developments, because he placed no reliance on the county police. It was
apparent that Merrington thought the murderer had come from a distance,
and he was going to seek him in London. But he was leaving nothing to
chance. He was retaining control of the investigations at both ends in
order to monopolize the glory of the capture. If the murderer escaped,
Caldew and the county police could be made the scapegoats for public
indignation.

But while paying the involuntary tribute of swift anger towards these
astute tactics of his departmental chief, Caldew realized with
satisfaction that he was in the possession of a piece of valuable
information which might upset his calculations.

"There are several people in the district whom it will be advisable to
interview," continued Merrington, hastily consulting his notes. "In the
first place, you must make another effort to see the Weynes. Mrs. Weyne
may be able to give us some valuable information about Mrs. Heredith's
earlier life. And I think you should see the station-master of Weydene
Junction. The murderer may have walked across country to the junction
rather than face the greater risk of subsequent identification by taking
the train at one of the village stations on this side of it. And you had
better see the housekeeper's daughter and get a statement from her. I do
not suppose she knows anything about the crime, but she was here last
night, and she had better be seen. She is employed as a milliner at the
market town of Stading."

"Do you mean Hazel Rath?" inquired Caldew, in some surprise.

"Yes. She is the daughter of the housekeeper. She stayed here last night
with her mother, but left to go back to her employment by the first
train this morning."

"There must be some mistake about that. I understand she is still in the
house."

"Who told you so?"

"One of the maidservants."

"We had better have the maid in and question her. What is her name?"

"Milly--Milly Saker."

Merrington touched the bell, and told the maidservant who answered it to
send in Milly Saker.

The girl came in almost immediately, looking half defiant and half
afraid. Merrington glanced at her keenly.

"You're the girl I saw dusting the hall this morning," he said. "Why did
you not come in with the other servants to be examined?"

"Because I wasn't here," answered the girl pertly.

"Where were you?"

"Down in the village, at my mother's place."

"Who gave you permission to go?"

"Mrs. Rath, the housekeeper."

"Did you ask her for leave of absence?"

"No. She knew my mother was ill, and she said to me after breakfast,
'Milly, would you like to go and see your mother this morning?' I said,
yes, I should, if she could spare me. She told me she could, so I
thanked her and went."

Superintendent Merrington and Captain Stanhill exchanged glances. The
same thought occurred to both of them. Mrs. Rath, the housekeeper, had
assured them that she had sent all the servants to the library to be
examined. Merrington turned to the girl again.

"Mrs. Rath's daughter was staying with her last night, wasn't she?"

"Yes."

"Is she still here?"

"Yes."

"Are you quite sure of that?"

"Yes, when I was outside about half an hour ago, I saw her through the
window, sitting in her mother's room."

This piece of information conveyed some significance to Merrington's
mind which was not apparent to Caldew. He paused for a moment, and then
continued abruptly:

"Where were you last night at the time of the murder?"

"Please, sir, I don't know nothing about it," responded the girl with a
whimper.

"Control yourself, my good girl," said Captain Stanhill soothingly.
"Nobody suggests you had anything to do with it."

For reply, the girl only sobbed loudly. Superintendent Merrington, who
had his own methods of soothing frightened females, shook her roughly by
the arm.

"Listen to me," he sternly commanded. "Do you want to go to prison?"

"N--o, sir," responded Milly, between a fresh burst of sobs.

"Then you'd better stop that noise and answer my questions, or I'll put
you under lock and key till you do. Where were you last night when the
murder was committed?"

"I was waiting at table till dessert was served," replied the girl,
thoroughly subdued by the overbearing manner of the big man confronting
her.

"What did you do when you left the dining-room?"

"I went to the kitchen and was talking to cook for a while."

"And what did you do then?"

"I went up the passage and into the hall to see if dinner was finished.
I knew Miss Heredith was anxious to have dinner over early as they were
all going out, and I wanted to get dinner cleared away as quickly as I
could, because I wanted to go out myself. I saw her leave the room and
go towards the front door, but nobody else came out of the dining-room,
and I could hear somebody talking. So after waiting a little while, and
seeing nobody else come out, I went back towards the kitchen."

"Where were you standing while you were waiting?"

"Just at the corner of the passage leading up from the kitchen."

"You didn't go up stairs at all?"

"No, of course I didn't. 'Tisn't my place to go upstairs."

"Don't be saucy, but answer my questions. Did you hear the scream and
the shot?"

"No, I didn't. I was back in the kitchen before then, and the kitchen is
right at the back of the house. Cook and me didn't know anything about
it till one of the girls came running down and told us about what had
happened."

"Did you see anybody except Miss Heredith in the hall or on the
staircase of the left wing while you were standing at the end of the
passage?"

"Nobody except Miss Rath."

"Do you mean the housekeeper's daughter?"

"Yes."

"When did you see her?"

"As I was standing there waiting for a chance to clear away the dinner
things, she come up from the centre passage leading from the
housekeeper's rooms, and turned into the hall."

"Where was she going?"

"I don't know. I didn't ask her," replied the girl, who had regained
something of her pert assurance.

"Did she see you?"

"No. I was standing at the end of the kitchen passage, which is close to
the right wing. The passage she come out of was quite a long way from
where I was standing, almost in the centre of the house. She turned the
other way."

"She turned to the right, then, as she emerged from the passage, and
walked in the direction of the left wing?"

"I don't know where she was going to. All I know is that I saw her turn
out of the passage, and walk, as if might be, up the hall in that
direction."

"Did you notice her actions?"

"I can't say as I did particular, except that she was walking in the
shadow, on the side nearest to the passage she come out of, and seemed
to be looking at the dining-room door."

"You are sure it was Hazel Rath?"

"Oh, it was her all right," replied Milly confidently. "I recognized
her, as well as the dress she was wearing."

"Was this before or after you saw Miss Heredith leave the dining-room?"

"About ten minutes afterwards."

"Did you mention to anybody that you saw her?"

"I did not," replied the girl, as if the matter were one of supreme
indifference to her.

"Why not?"

"I suppose Miss Rath is free to go where she pleases," said the girl
airily. "She's privileged. When she used to live here she had the run of
the house, just like one of the family. Tain't my business to question
her comings and goings."

"Oh, Miss Rath used to live here, did she? How long ago?"

"Till about two years ago, before she went to business."

"And how long did she live here?"

"It must have been a good seven years or more," said Milly, considering.
"She come here as a little girl when her mother come as housekeeper.
Miss Heredith took a great fancy to her, and she was made quite a pet of
the house, and did just what she liked. When she grew up she used to
help her mother, and do little things about the house. But she never
gave herself airs--I will say that."

"Very well. You may go now."

"Caldew," said Merrington quickly as the door closed behind the girl,
"go and find the housekeeper and send her in here. And then keep an eye
on her daughter, and do not let her out of your sight, until I send for
you. Then bring her in."

When Caldew left the room on his errand, Captain Stanhill turned to
Superintendent Merrington with a pained expression on his face.

"Do you suspect--" he commenced.

"I suspect nobody--and everybody," was the prompt reply. "My duty is to
find out the facts, and my business is now to ascertain why the
housekeeper lied to me about her daughter this morning. She was a fool
to try and trick me. There's something underneath all this which I'll
sift to the bottom before I leave."

There was a timid tap, and the door opened slowly, revealing the frail
black figure of the housekeeper standing hesitatingly on the threshold.
Her frightened eyes were directed to Merrington's truculent ones as
though impelled by a magnet.

"You--you wished to see me?" she stammered.

"Yes. Come in." Merrington curtly commanded. "Close that door, Lumbe.
Sit down, Mrs. Rath, I have a few questions to ask you."

The housekeeper took a seat, with her eyes still fixed on Merrington's
face. She looked ill and haggard, but the contour of her worn face, and
the outline of her slender figure suggested that she had once possessed
beauty and attraction. Merrington, staring at her hard, again had the
idea that he had seen her long ago in different conditions and
circumstances, but he could not recall where.

"Look here, Mrs. Rath," he commenced abruptly. "I want to know why you
lied to me this morning."

"I--I don't know what you mean. I didn't come here to be insulted." The
housekeeper uttered these words with a weak attempt at dignity, but her
lips went suddenly white.

"Don't put on any fine-lady airs with me, for they won't go down," said
Merrington, in a fierce, bullying tone. "You know what I mean very well.
You told me this morning, when I asked you, that you had sent in all the
servants to be examined. I have just discovered that you did not. There
was a girl, Milly Saker, whom I did not see. Why was that?"

It seemed to Captain Stanhill that the tension of the housekeeper's face
relaxed, and that a look of relief came into her eyes, as though the
question were different from the one she had expected.

"I did not tell you a lie," she replied, in a firmer tone. "I sent in
all the servants who were in the house at the time. Milly was not at
home."

"Where was she?"

"She went across to the village to see her mother, who is ill."

"With your permission, I presume?"

"Yes."

"Why did you permit her to go?"

"The girl's mother was very ill, and needed her daughter."

"You let her go, although I had told you I wanted to question all the
servants?"

"No, it was before you told me that I gave Milly permission to have the
morning off," responded Mrs. Rath quietly.

"Is that the true explanation?"

"Yes."

"Is it as true as your other statement?"

"What other statement?"

"The statement you made to me this morning when you assured me your
daughter had left this house to return to her employment at Stading?"
said Merrington, with a cruel smile. "That wasn't true, you know. How do
you describe that untruth? As a temporary aberration of memory, or
what?"

The housekeeper looked up with swift, startled eyes, and her thin hand
involuntarily clutched the edge of the table in front of her, but she
did not speak.

"You lied about that, you know," continued Merrington. "I've found out
your daughter has been in the house all day. Why did you tell me a lie?
Come, out with it!"

"You are too abrupt, Merrington," said Captain Stanhill, interposing
with unexpected firmness. "You have frightened her. Come, Mrs. Rath," he
said gently, "can you not give us some explanation as to why you misled
us this morning?"

"Because I didn't want my daughter to be drawn into this dreadful
thing," she exclaimed wildly. "I suppose it was very foolish of me," she
added, in a more composed voice, as though reassured by the kindly look
in Captain Stanhill's eyes, "but I really didn't think it mattered. My
daughter knew nothing about the murder and as she is highly strung I did
not want her to be upset."

"Where was your daughter last night when the murder was committed?"
asked Merrington.

"In my room."

"Did either of you hear the scream or the shot?"

"No, my rooms are a long way from the left wing, and we were sitting
with the door shut."

"Then when did you learn about the murder?"

"Very soon after it happened. One of the maidservants came and told me."

"And you say that your daughter was with you at the time, and had been
with you a considerable time before?"

"Yes."

"I think that will do, Mrs. Rath, I have given you every opportunity,
but you still persist in telling falsehoods. Your daughter was seen
walking up the hall last night in the direction of the left wing shortly
before the murder was committed. The person who saw her was the maid
Milly Saker. Was that the real reason why you gave Milly leave of
absence to visit her mother this morning--so that she should not tell us
what she knew?"

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