The Hand in the Dark

A >> Arthur J. Rees >> The Hand in the Dark

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"The Herediths have ever been a family of great warriors, Mr. Colwyn,"
said Miss Heredith, following his glance along the walls. "Each of those
weapons has some story of bravery, I might almost say heroism, attached
to it. That sword you are looking at belonged to my grand-uncle, who
commanded the British Army in the Peninsula. He was originally a major
in the 14th Foot."

"I was under the impression that Wellington commanded in Portugal," said
Musard.

"My grand-uncle was Sir Arthur Wellesley's senior officer, Vincent,"
responded Miss Heredith. "He arrived in Portugal in 1809 to take
command, but Sir Arthur most culpably failed to have horses ready to
carry him to the field of battle. In consequence of Sir Arthur's neglect
my grand-uncle was compelled to take the next boat back to England.
There was a question asked in the Commons of the day about Sir Arthur's
conduct. I do not know what the question was, but the answer was in the
negative, though I am not quite sure what that means. In any case, my
grand-uncle was a greater soldier than Wellington. My mother often heard
my grand-aunt say so."

"I notice that there are no revolvers or pistols among the weapons on
the walls," said Colwyn.

"We never had a revolver," replied Phil.

"There are a pair of horse pistols in that case," said Musard, pointing
to an oblong mahogany box with brass corners, resting on a stand in a
niche of the wall. He crossed over to the box and fumbled with the brass
snibs, but was unable to open it. "The case is locked," he said.

"Perhaps it is only jammed," suggested Phil.

"Oh, no, it is locked fast enough. Do you understand anything about
locks, Mr. Colwyn?"

"You will have to break it open if you have lost the key," said Colwyn,
after glancing at the box. "It is an obsolete type of lock."

"I should have liked to show you those pistols," said Musard. "They
carry as true as a rifle up to fifty yards. Their only drawback is that
they are a bit clumsy, and have a heavy recoil."

"I wonder where the key is?" remarked Miss Heredith. "I must ask Tufnell
about it."

"Will you tell me where the revolver practice took place that
afternoon?" said Colwyn, turning to Phil.

"They were firing from behind the bagatelle board at a target fixed over
there," said Phil, pointing to the far wall.

"Who proposed the game?"

"Nepcote. It was a very wet afternoon, and everybody had to stay
indoors. He suggested after tea that it would be a good way of killing
the time before dinner. Several of the men and two or three of the girls
thought it a capital idea, and a sweepstake was arranged. They asked me
for a revolver, but I told them we had not one. One of the officers
offered his army revolver, but that was objected to as too heavy and
dangerous for indoor shooting. Then Nepcote said that he had a light
revolver in his bag, and he went upstairs to get it. He came downstairs
with it in his hand, and those who were taking part in the sport went
downstairs to the gun-room. I went with them for a while, but I did not
stay long."

"Captain Nepcote's revolver is not an army weapon?"

"Oh, no. It is a very small and slight weapon, nickel-plated, with six
chambers. It is so light as to resemble a toy."

"With a correspondingly light report, I presume. The sound of the target
practice would not be heard upstairs?"

"It would be an exceedingly loud report that penetrated to the upper
regions through that door," interjected Musard, pointing to the oak door
with iron clamps which gave entrance to the gun-room. "Besides, there is
another door at the top of the steps. If they were both shut you might
fire off every weapon in the place without anybody upstairs hearing a
sound."

Colwyn had listened to Phil's account of the target shooting with the
closest attention. He remained silent for some moments, as though he
were pondering over every point in it. Then he said:

"What makes you feel so sure that Nepcote did not leave his revolver in
this room after the shooting?"

"He could only have left it on the bagatelle board or one of the
chairs," replied Phil earnestly. "If he had done so it would have been
seen by somebody."

"Provided anybody entered the gun-room," put in Musard.

"Of course there must have been somebody here," rejoined Phil with some
warmth. "The detectives think that Hazel did not find it until the
following evening. Do you suppose nobody visited the gun-room for
twenty-four hours?"

"I think it quite likely with such a poor shooting lot--" Musard
commenced, but broke off as he caught Miss Heredith's warning glance.
"All right, laddie," he added soothingly; "Perhaps you are right, after
all."

"I have no doubt I am right," exclaimed Phil excitedly. "Do you not
think I am right, Mr. Colwyn?"

"I think that what you have said about the likelihood of the revolver
having been seen is quite feasible," responded the detective. "But there
is nothing to be gained by discussing that possibility at the present
moment. Shall we go upstairs again, Miss Heredith?" he added, turning to
her.

She turned on him a grateful glance for his tact and forbearance, and
hastened to lead the way from the gun-room. The few words between Phil
and Musard had not only brought sharply back to her all the past horror
and agony of the murder, but had caused a poignant renewal of her
apprehensions about her nephew's health. She realized that he was a
changed being, moody and irritable, and liable to sudden fits of
excitement on slight provocation. She felt that Musard had been rather
inconsiderate to forget Phil's illness and cause him to get excited by
differing from him.

Her concern was not lessened by intercepting a strange glance which Phil
cast at Musard when they reached the library. Before she had time to
reflect on what it meant, Phil turned to her and asked her where she had
put Violet's jewel-case.

"I told you yesterday, Phil, that I brought it downstairs and locked it
up," replied Miss Heredith, with a glance at the safe in the corner of
the room. "I have been keeping the keys until you got better."

"Then you might let me have them now," said the young man. "I should
like to see if the jewels are all right."

"Why, Phil, of course they are all right," his aunt replied. "We found
the jewel-case locked, and not tampered with in any way."

"Was Mrs. Heredith's jewel-case in her bedroom the night she was
murdered?" asked Colwyn.

"Yes," responded Miss Heredith. "We found it on her toilet-table, where
she usually kept it."

"Did it contain valuable jewels?"

"It contained a necklace of pearls which was given to poor Violet by Sir
Philip," was the reply. "It is an old family necklace."

"Then I agree with Mr. Heredith that the jewel case should be opened."

"Very well. As you think it necessary, I will go to my room for the
keys."

Miss Heredith left the library, and returned in a few moments with a
small bunch of keys in her hand. She went to the safe, unlocked it, and
returned to the table bearing an oblong silver box of quaint design,
with the portrait of a stout simpering lady in enamel on the cover. Miss
Heredith directed Colwyn's attention to the portrait, remarking that it
was a likeness of a princess of the reigning house, who had given it and
the box to her great-uncle, Captain Sir Philip Heredith.

"Her Royal Highness held my great-uncle in much esteem, Mr. Colwyn," she
added, as she proceeded to fit one of the keys into the box. "He was one
of the most famous of Nelson's captains. When he died the residents of
his native town erected a memorial to him. It was inscribed with
testimony to his worth in a civic, military, and Christian capacity,
together with a text stating that he caused the widow's heart to sing
for joy. Beneath the text was commemorated his feat in sinking the
French frigate _L'Equille_, with every soul on board."

"That hardly seems like causing the widow's heart to sing for joy,"
commented Musard.

"The reference was to English widows, Vincent," replied Miss Heredith,
proceeding to open the box with loving care. "At that period of our
history we had not discovered the good qualities of the French people,
which have endeared them to--Oh!" Miss Heredith broke off with a
startled exclamation as the lid of the silver box fell back, revealing
an empty interior.

It is only in moments of complete surprise that the human face fails to
keep up some semblance of guard over the inmost feelings. At the
discovery that the jewel-case was empty Miss Heredith's dignity dropped
from her like a falling garment, and she stared at the velvet interior
with half-open mouth and an air of consternation on her face.

"Oh!" she cried again, finding voice after a moment's tense silence.
"The necklace is gone."

"By heaven, this is amazing," muttered Musard.

"I thought you said it was safe?" The speaker was Phil. He did not look
at his aunt as he uttered this reproach, but gazed at the empty box with
glowing eyes under drawn brows.

"Phil, Phil, I thought it was safe--oh, I thought it was safe!" cried
Miss Heredith almost hysterically. "Where is it gone? Who could have
taken it? The box was locked when we saw it upstairs, and the day after
the funeral I found Violet's keys at the back of the drawer where she
always kept them."

"The box may have been locked when you found it, but it seems equally
certain that it was also empty," said Colwyn. He alone of the excited
group was cool enough to estimate the awkward possibilities of this
discovery. "How was it that the detectives did not open the jewel-case
on the night of the murder, so as to make quite sure that the necklace
had not been stolen?"

"I took the necklace downstairs and locked it away before the police
arrived," said Miss Heredith tearfully. "When Detective Caldew came he
asked me if anything was missing from Violet's bedroom, and I told him
no. Of course, I did not dream of anything like this. Oh, how I wish now
that I had opened the jewel-case at the time. But I never thought. I
tried the case and found it locked, so I thought it had not been
touched."

"Really, I am more to blame than Miss Heredith," interposed Musard
hurriedly. "I saw the jewel-case first, and I should have thought of
having it opened."

"It is a pity you did not inform the detectives about the case," said
Colwyn. His face was grave as he realized how completely the police had
been led astray in their original investigations by the misunderstanding
which had concealed an important fact. "But first let us make sure that
the jewel-case was empty when it was brought downstairs. How many people
have access to this safe, Miss Heredith? Is there more than one key?"

"There is only one key," she replied. "And that has been in my
possession since the night of the murder."

"That disposes of that possibility, then. What about Mrs. Heredith's
bunch of keys? Have they also been in your possession since she was
killed?"

"Yes; I kept them in an upstairs drawer, which was locked."

"Can you tell me when you last saw the necklace?"

Miss Heredith reflected for a moment.

"Not for some time," she said. "Violet did not care for it, and rarely
wore it."

"The necklace was of pink pearls," Musard explained. "Their value was
more historical than intrinsic, for they had become tarnished with age,
and the setting was old-fashioned. It was for that reason Mrs. Heredith
did not like it. I was going to take the pearls to London the following
day to arrange to have them skinned and reset."

"When I went into poor Violet's room that night to see if she felt well
enough to go to the Weynes' I asked her for the necklace," said Miss
Heredith. "She replied that she would give it to me in the morning. If
she had only given it to me then, she might have been alive to-day."

"I should like to hear more about this," said Colwyn. "Please tell me
everything."

In response Miss Heredith related to the detective all that had passed
between the young wife and herself in the bedroom before dinner on the
night of the murder. Colwyn listened attentively, with a growing sense
of hidden complexities in the crime revealed at the eleventh hour. He
saw that the case took on a new and deeper aspect when considered in
conjunction with the facts which had been so innocently ignored. When
Miss Heredith had finished, he asked her when it was first decided to
send the necklace to London for resetting.

"It was the night before the murder," Miss Heredith replied. "Sir Philip
suggested that Violet should wear the necklace to the dance on the
following night, but Violet said that the pearls were really too dull to
be worn. Mr. Musard agreed with her, and offered to take it to London
and have it cleaned and reset by an expert of his acquaintance. Mr.
Musard had to return to London on the morning after the dance, so that
was the reason why I went into Violet's room before dinner on the night
of the party to ask her for the necklace."

Colwyn considered this reply in all its bearings before he spoke.

"The best thing I can do is to return to London without delay and bring
these additional facts before Scotland Yard," he said. "They have been
misled--unwittingly but gravely misled--and it is only right that they
should be informed at once. I know Merrington, and I will make a point
of seeing him personally and telling him about the discovery of the
missing necklace."

The little group heard his decision in a silence which suggested more
than words were able to convey. It was Phil who finally uttered the
thought which was in all their minds:

"Are you satisfied that Hazel Rath is innocent?"

"I cannot say that," responded the detective quickly. "The loss of the
necklace does nothing to lessen the suspicion against her unless it can
be proved that she had nothing to do with its disappearance--perhaps not
even then. But all the facts must be investigated anew. The necklace
must be traced, and the point about the revolver cleared up. But there
is nothing more to be done here at present. The field of the
investigation now shifts to London. I will get ready for the journey, if
you will excuse me."

"I hope you will continue your own investigations, Mr. Colwyn," said
Phil earnestly. "I am more than ever convinced of Hazel Rath's
innocence, but I have small faith that the police are likely to
establish it--even if they attempt to do so. I was not impressed with
the skill of Detective Caldew, or his attitude when I told him that I
believed Hazel Rath to be innocent."

"I will continue my investigations in conjunction with Scotland Yard, if
it is your wish," the detective replied.

CHAPTER XVIII

Colwyn was upstairs in his bedroom preparing for his return journey to
London when a meek knock and an apologetic cough reached his ears. He
turned and saw Tufnell standing at the half-open door. The face of the
old butler wore a look of mingled determination and nervousness--the
expression of a timid man who had braced himself to a bold course of
action after much irresolute deliberation.

"I beg your pardon, sir," he said, and his trepidation was apparent in
his voice. "But might I--that is to say, could you spare me a few
minutes' conversation?"

"Certainly," replied the detective. "Come inside, Tufnell. What is it?"

The butler entered the room and carefully closed the door behind him.

"I am sorry to interrupt you, sir," he said. "But I have just heard Miss
Heredith give orders for your car to be got ready for your return to
London, and I knew there was no time to be lost. It's about the--the
murder, sir." He brought out the last words with an effort.

"Go on," said Colwyn, wondering what further surprise was in store for
him.

"It's about something that happened on that night. I wanted to tell you
before, but I didn't like to. After the murder was discovered I was sent
over to the village to fetch the police and the doctor, and while I was
hurrying through the woods near the moat-house I thought I saw a man
crouching behind one of the trees near the carriage drive. He seemed to
be looking towards me. When I looked again he was gone."

"And what did you do?"

"I called out, but received no answer, so I hurried on."

Colwyn scrutinized the butler with a thoughtful penetrating glance. The
butler bore the look with the meek air of a domestic animal who knows
that he is being appraised.

"Am I the first person to whom you have told this story?" the detective
asked after a pause.

"Yes, sir."

"Why did you not inform the police officers when they were investigating
the case?"

"For several reasons, sir. It seemed to me, when I came to think it
over, that it must have been my fancy, and then it passed out of my mind
in the worry and excitement of the house. Then, when I did think of it
again, I didn't like to mention it to Superintendent Merrington, because
he was such a bullying sort of gentleman that I felt quite nervous of
him. Really, for a gentleman who has travelled with Royal Highnesses, as
I've heard tell, and might be supposed to know how gentlemen behave, the
way he treated the servants while he was here was almost too much for
flesh and blood to bear." The butler's withered cheeks flushed faintly
at the recollection. "I couldn't bring myself to tell him, sir."

Colwyn smiled slightly. He was not unacquainted with Merrington's
methods of cross-examination.

"You could have spoken to Detective Caldew, the other officer engaged in
the case," he said.

"Young Tom Caldew!" exclaimed the butler, in manifest surprise.

"You know him then?"

"I know him, but I cannot say I know any good of him," rejoined the
butler severely. "Young Tom Caldew was born and bred in this village,
and an idle young vagabond he was. Many a time have I dusted his jacket
for stealing chestnuts in our park. The place was well rid of him, I
take it, when he ran away to London and joined the police force. No,
sir, I really couldn't see myself confiding in young Tom Caldew."

"And why have you confided in me now?"

"Well, sir, it was the arrest of the young woman that set me thinking,
and caused me to wonder whether I'd done right in keeping this back.
What I thought I saw that night may have been merely fancy on my part,
but it took on an added importance in my mind when Miss Rath was
arrested for murdering Mrs. Heredith. It seemed to me as though I might
be doing some sort of injustice to her by not telling about it, and I
wouldn't like to have that on my conscience after the way things turned
out. But I thought it was too late to say anything after they had
arrested Miss Rath and taken her away. Then Mr. Philip got better from
his illness and went to London to fetch you. The same evening I heard
Miss Heredith and Mr. Musard talking at the dinner table about the
murder, and I gathered from what they said that Mr. Philip thought the
detectives had made a mistake in arresting Miss Rath. Then I decided to
tell you when you arrived, but I couldn't summon up my courage to do so
until now," concluded the butler simply. "I hope I have done right,
sir."

"You have certainly done right in not keeping the story to yourself any
longer," said Colwyn. "Before I leave here you had better show me the
place in the woods where you thought you saw this man."

"I shall be happy to do so, sir. I should like to thank you for
listening to me. It is a weight off my mind."

"I shall be going almost immediately," continued Colwyn. "I think the
best plan will be for you to meet me in the carriage drive, near the
spot. Can you manage that?"

"Quite easily, sir."

"Excellent. And now, as you go downstairs, I should be glad if you would
tell Mr. Musard that I should like to see him in my room before I go."

"Very well, sir. Afterwards you will find me waiting at the bend of the
carriage drive where it winds round the lake."

Colwyn nodded his comprehension, and Tufnell left the room with a
relieved countenance. A few moments later there was another knock at the
door. In response to Colwyn's invitation the door opened, and Musard
appeared.

"Tufnell said you wished to see me," he said, with an inquiring glance
from beneath his dark brows.

"Yes. I should be glad if you would give me a description of the missing
necklace. It will be useful in tracing it."

"It is not difficult to describe," replied Musard, seating himself on
the edge of the bed. "It consisted of a single row of pink pearls, none
of them very large. The biggest is about forty grains, and the others
between twenty and thirty. It has a diamond clasp, set in antique gold,
which is the most valuable part of the necklace. Do you know anything
about jewels?"

"A little."

"Then you are aware that blue and red diamonds are the most valuable of
stones. This diamond is a blue one--not very large, but a particularly
fine stone."

"Of course the necklace is well-known to jewel experts?"

"As well-known as any piece of jewellery in Europe. Some of the pearls
in it are hundreds of years old. It would be almost impossible for the
thief to dispose of the necklace."

"It might be taken to pieces," suggested Colwyn.

"In order to hide its identity? Well, yes, but the selling value would
be greatly reduced. The pearls have been strung."

"What about the diamond? Could not that be sold by the thief without
risk of discovery?"

"Only by sending it to Amsterdam to get it cut into two or three smaller
stones, so as to lessen the risk of detection. The Heredith blue diamond
is known to many connoisseurs. It is cut in an unusual form--a kind of
irregular rosette, in order to display its fire and optical properties
to the best advantage. If it were cut it would lose a great deal of its
value. The money value of one large diamond of first quality is very
much greater than the same stone cut into three. But it would be
difficult to sell the diamond in its present form. The chances are that
it would be recognized in Hatton Garden--if it were offered for sale
there."

"But if the diamond fell into the hands of somebody with a knowledge of
precious stones he might keep it close for a while and then dispose of
it abroad--in America, for instance," returned Colwyn. "That trick has
been performed with better-known stones than the Heredith diamond. In
fact, it strikes me as possible to sell the whole necklace that way. The
disposal of the necklace depends largely upon who stole it--upon whether
it has fallen into experienced or inexperienced hands. There are jewel
dealers who ask no awkward questions if they can get things at their own
price."

"Quite so," assented Musard, casting a quick glance at his companion's
face. "It would be a risk, though--the thief might pick the wrong man. I
can give you the addresses of two or three men in Hatton Garden who
should be able to tell you if the necklace has been offered there. They
know everything that is going on in the trade."

"I shall be glad to have them."

Musard scribbled several names and addresses on a leaf of his
pocket-book, tore it out, and handed it to the detective.

"There is a curious coincidence about the loss of this, necklace," he
remarked casually, as he rose to go. "It is another example of the
misfortune which attaches to the possession of a blue diamond."

"Are you thinking of the Hope blue diamond? That certainly has a
sinister history."

"That is the most notorious instance. But all blue diamonds are unlucky.
I could tell you some gruesome stories connected with them. The previous
wearer of the Heredith necklace--Philip's mother--died in giving birth
to him. Incidentally, there is a curious legend attached to the
moat-house in the form of a curse laid on it by the original builder,
who was burnt alive in the old house. He prophesied that as the house of
the Herediths was founded in horror it should end in horror. These old
family curses sometimes come home to roost after a long lapse of time,
though modern cynicism affects to sneer at such fancies. Of course,
there may be nothing in it, but we have had more than enough horror in
the moat-house recently, and poor Mrs. Heredith had a blue diamond in
her room when she was murdered. But I must not keep you any longer, Mr.
Colwyn. If there has been any miscarriage of justice in this terrible
case I trust that you will be successful in bringing it to light."

He lingered after shaking hands, as though he would have liked to
continue the conversation. Apparently not finding sufficient
encouragement in the detective's face to do so, he turned and left the
room, and Colwyn resumed his preparations for departure.

When they were completed he, too, went downstairs, carrying his bag.
Miss Heredith and Phil were waiting to bid farewell to him. As Miss
Heredith said good-bye, she looked into his face with the perplexed
expression of a simple soul seeking reassurance from a stronger mind in
the deep vortex of extraordinary events into which she had been plunged
beyond her depth. Phil looked white and ill, and the hand which he gave
into the detective's cool firm grasp was hot and feverish. While his
aunt murmured those conventional phrases under which women seek to cover
the realities of life as they bedeck corpses with flowers, Phil stood
aside with the impatient air of one scornful of the futility of such
things. As Miss Heredith ceased speaking he took a step forward, his
dark eyes fixed eagerly and searchingly on Colwyn.

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