The Hand in the Dark

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In his contemplation of the case Merrington's thoughts turned to Colwyn,
and he wondered in what direction the private detective's investigations
into the case had progressed--if they had progressed at all--since he
had seen him last. In a chastened mood, he reflected that Colwyn had not
only given him a warning which was annoyingly different from other
advice in being well worth following, but had acted generously in
informing him of the missing necklace when he might have kept the
discovery to himself, in order to score a point over Scotland Yard and
place one of the Yard's most distinguished officials in an awkward
position.

With a belated but unconscious recognition of an intelligence which far
surpassed his own, Merrington felt that it would be worth while to have
another talk with Colwyn, in the hope of finding some way out of the
perplexities in which he had plunged himself by permitting Nepcote to
escape.

The next interview, which was of his seeking, took place at Colwyn's
rooms in the evening, after Merrington had previously arranged for it by
telephone. The face of the private detective revealed neither surprise
nor resentment at the sight of Merrington. He invited his guest to sit
down, and then seated himself a little distance from the table, on which
whisky and cigars were set out.

"Well, Mr. Colwyn, you were right and I was wrong about that fellow
Nepcote," Merrington commenced, realizing that it was best to come to
the point at once. "I wish now that I had followed your advice."

"If you hadn't gone to see him perhaps you wouldn't know as much as you
know now," said Colwyn drily.

"That's one way of looking at it," responded Merrington with his great
laugh. "Unfortunately, that interview caused Nepcote to bolt, and so far
he has shown us a clean pair of heels."

"You've had no news of him?"

"Only a lot of false reports. I am convinced that he is still hiding in
London, but the trouble is to get hold of him. These infernal darkened
streets make it more difficult. A wanted man can walk along them at
night right under the nose of the police without fear of being seen."

"Have you made any fresh discoveries about the case?"

"We have ascertained that a man who may have been Nepcote was seen near
the moat-house on the night of the murder."

Colwyn nodded indifferently. The tracing of Nepcote's movements on the
night of the murder was to him one of the minor points of the problem,
like the first pawn move in chess--essential, but without real
significance, in view of the inevitable inference of the flight.

"I have been working on the case from this end," he said.

"In what direction?"

"Trying to arrive at the beginning of the mystery. I have been
endeavouring to find out something about Mrs. Heredith's earlier life.
It struck me that it might throw some light on the subsequent events."

"I have been investigating along similar lines. Shall we compare notes?"

"With pleasure, but I should think that you have been able to find out
more than I have been able to discover single-handed. For one thing, I
have seen Lady Vaughan, the wife of Sir William Vaughan, of the War
Office. She is a kind and gracious woman, taking a great interest in the
hundreds of girl clerks employed at her husband's department in
Whitehall. Last winter she gave a series of dances at her house in
Knightsbridge, and the girls were invited in turns. Mr. Heredith was
present at one of these functions."

"So much I know," said Merrington.

"Then you are probably aware that Captain Nepcote was also present that
evening, and brought several other young officers with him. It was he
who introduced Philip Heredith to the girl whom he afterwards married."

"I knew Nepcote was a guest at one of the dances, but it is news to me
that he introduced the girl to young Heredith. Lady Vaughan did not tell
us this."

"Lady Vaughan did not know. I ascertained the fact later from one of the
guests who witnessed the introduction. I attach some importance to the
point. Last winter Philip Heredith and Nepcote were on fairly intimate
terms, working together in the same room at the War Office, and
sometimes going together to the houses of mutual friends. It was
evidently a case of the attraction of opposites."

"It must have been," replied Merrington emphatically. "I have had
inquiries made about Nepcote, and I should not have thought he would
have appealed to Mr. Heredith. There is nothing actually wrong so far as
we can learn, but he had the reputation, before the war, of a fast and
idle young man about town, with a weakness for women and gambling. He
came into a few thousands some years ago, but soon spent it. I imagine
that he has subsisted principally on credit and gambling since he
squandered his money, for he is certainly not the type of man to live on
his pay as an officer. As a matter of fact, he was in serious trouble
with the Army authorities recently for not paying his mess bills in
France. He was not brought up to the Army, and he has seen very little
active service. He got his captain's commission about twelve months
after the war commenced, when the War Office was handing out commissions
like boxes of matches, but he managed to keep under the Whitehall
umbrella until quite recently. He seems to have a bit of a pull
somewhere, though I cannot find out where. Perhaps it is his charm of
manner--everybody who knows him says he has a charming manner, though it
wasn't apparent to me that night I interviewed him at his flat."

"Perhaps he was too afraid to exercise it on that occasion," suggested
Colwyn, with a smile. "He must have thought that it was all up with
him."

"Have you discovered anything about Mrs. Heredith's antecedents?" asked
Merrington with an abruptness which suggested that he had little relish
for the last remark.

"Very little, apart from the fact that she lived in rooms, and had no
real girl friends, so far as I can ascertain. Apparently she was a girl
who played a lone hand, as they say in America. The type is not uncommon
in large cities. My information, such as it is, is not of the least
importance one way or the other."

"I have learnt very little more than you, except that she changed her
rooms pretty frequently, but always kept within an easy radius of the
West End, living in dull but respectable neighbourhoods like Russell
Square and Woburn Place. It was precious little time she spent there,
though. The people of these places know nothing about her except that
she used to go out in the morning and did not return till late at
night--generally in a taxi, and alone, so far as is known. She was,
apparently, one of those bachelor girls who have sprung into existence
in thousands during the war--one of that distinct species who trade on
their good looks and are out for a good time, but keep sufficiently on
the safe side of the fence to be careful of their reputations. It's part
of their stock in trade.

"Such girls contrive to go everywhere and see everything at the expense
of young men with more money than brains, who have been caught by their
looks. It's the Savoy for lunch, a West End restaurant for dinner,
revue, late supper, and home in a taxi--with perhaps, a kiss for the lot
by way of payment. The War Office was a godsend to this type of girl. It
gives them jobs with nothing to do, with a kind of official standing
thrown in, and the chance of meeting plenty of young officers over on
leave from the front, with money to burn and hungry for pretty English
faces. It is difficult to find out anything about these bachelor girls.
They have no homes--only a place to sleep in--they confide in nobody,
and their men friends will never give them away. Almost any woman will
give away a man, but I have never yet known a man give away a woman."

"If Mrs. Heredith was that type of girl, it is possible that some early
episode or forgotten flirtation in her past life is mixed up with the
mystery of her death."

"You think that, do you?" asked Merrington regarding his companion
attentively.

"How else can we explain Nepcote's appearance in the mystery, except on
the ground that he may have murdered her for the necklace? It is
important to bear in mind that Nepcote knew her in her single days. If
she had a secret she has taken it to the grave with her. There remains
Nepcote, who is deeply implicated in the case in some way. You may learn
something from him if you can catch him and induce him to speak, though
I must confess I find it difficult to reconcile the supposition that he
committed the murder with the known circumstances of the case."

"There I agree with you," exclaimed Merrington. "What is Hazel Rath's
position if we admit any such supposition? Nothing has yet come to light
to shake the evidence which points to her as the person who murdered
Mrs. Heredith."

"Does she still refuse to speak?"

"Yes. She is as obstinate as a mule and as mute as a fish. I sent a very
clever woman detective down to the gaol at Lewes to try and coax her to
say something, but she could get nothing out of her. She said she had no
statement to make, and nothing whatever to say. She refused to go beyond
that."

"She may have some strong reason for keeping silence," remarked Colwyn
thoughtfully. "Arrested persons sometimes remain silent under a grave
charge because they are anxious to keep certain knowledge in their
possession from the police. Nepcote's implication in the case lends
colour to the theory that Hazel Rath may be keeping silent for some such
purpose."

"In order to shield Nepcote?"

"It is possible, though I do not think we are in a position to infer
that much without further knowledge. But now that we know that Nepcote
is connected with the case I certainly think that a strong effort should
be made to induce Hazel Rath to speak."

"It is not to be done," replied Merrington, with an emphatic shake of
the head. "The girl is not to be drawn."

"Have you told her about the recent developments of the case?"

"About Nepcote, do you mean?"

"Yes."

"Certainly not," replied Merrington, in a tone of outraged officialism.
"To give the girl that piece of information before I know what it means
would place such a powerful weapon in the hands of the lawyer for the
defence that I should have to withdraw the charge against Hazel Rath at
the next police court proceedings if I did not arrest Nepcote in the
meantime. I do not want any dramatic developments--as the idiotic
newspapers call it-in my cases. There is a certain amount of public
sympathy with this girl already."

"I think you stand to gain more than you lose by telling her that
Nepcote is suspected."

"I prefer to arrest Nepcote first. We may get him at any moment, and
then, I hope, we shall find out where we stand in this case. But what do
you mean by saying that I have more to gain than lose by telling the
girl about him?"

"If she is keeping silent to shield Nepcote, she is likely to reveal the
truth when she knows that there is nothing more to be gained by silence.
She will then begin to think of herself. In my opinion, you have now an
excellent weapon in your hand to force her to speak."

"Can we go so far as to assume that she is keeping silence to shield
him? Let us assume that they went to Mrs. Heredith's room together for
the purpose of murder and robbery. The girl, we will suppose, fired the
shot and Nepcote escaped from the window with the necklace. Is Hazel
Rath likely to reveal such a story when she knows it will not save
herself?"

"Your assumptions carry you too far," returned Colwyn. "Our presumptive
knowledge does not take us that distance. Till Nepcote's share in the
case is explained it is useless indulging in speculations outside our
premises. Let us defer inferences until we have marshalled more facts.
We do not know whether more than one pair of eyes witnessed the murder
of Mrs. Heredith; the theory that Hazel Rath fired the shot is merely a
presumption of fact, and not an actual certainty. Much is still hidden
in this case, and the question is, can Hazel Rath enlighten us? As she
and Nepcote are now both implicated, it seems to me that the best
inducement to get her to speak is by letting her know that you have
arrested Nepcote. In my opinion, the experiment is well worth trying."

Merrington rose to his feet and paced across the room, pondering over
the proposal.

"I am inclined to believe you are right," he said. "At any rate, I shall
go down to Lewes to-morrow and put it to the test. I would ask you to
accompany me, but it would be a little irregular."

"I shall be content to learn the result," Colwyn answered.

CHAPTER XXIII

There are moments when the human brain refuses to receive communication
from its peripheries, and the rapidity of thought becomes so slow that
it can be measured by minutes. The stage of consciousness on which
life's drama is solitarily played for every human being is too
circumscribed to expand all at once for the reception of a strange and
unexpected image. Such moments follow in, the wake of a great shock,
like a black curtain descending on a lighted scene. When the curtain
begins to rise again it is on a darkened stage, on which the objects are
seen dimly at first, then clearer as returning intelligence, working
slowly for the accommodation of the new setting, places the fresh
impression in order with the throng of previously existing ideas.

Such a moment seemed to have come to Hazel Rath as she stood looking at
Merrington, who sat in an easy chair on the other side of the table
confronting her with the tangible perception of his massive presence,
reinforced by the weight of an authority which, if not so perceptible,
was sufficiently apparent in the stolid blue back of a policeman on duty
outside the glass door, and in the barred windows of the little room to
which she had been brought to receive the news which had just been
conveyed to her. But she gave no sign of having heard, or, at least,
understood the import of Merrington's relation. Her dark eyes wandered
around the little office, and slowly returned to the face of the big man
who was watching her so closely. Her look, which at first had been one
of utter bewilderment, now revealed a trace of incredulity which
suggested a returning power for the assimilation of ideas. But she did
not speak.

"Have you nothing to say?" Merrington demanded. He had been a silent
listener to many criminal confessions in his time, but in the unusual
reversion of roles he was becoming unreasonably angry with the girl for
not repaying his confidence with her own story.

His loud hectoring voice startled her, and seemed to accelerate the
mechanism of her mind into the association of her surroundings with her
position.

"Why did you bring me here to torture me?" she cried, with a sudden rush
of shrill utterance which was, in its way, almost as pitiful and
surprising as her previous silence. "Oh, why cannot you leave me alone?"

She threw her arms out wildly, then, as if realizing the futility of
gesture, dropped them helplessly to her sides. There was something in
the action which suggested a bird trying to stretch its wings in a
cramped cage. Her quivering lips, tense facial muscles, and strained yet
restless bearing plainly revealed an unbalanced temperament, bending
beneath the weight of a burden too heavy and sustained. As an
experienced police official, Merrington was well versed in the little
signs which indicate the breaking point of imprisonment in those unused
to it. He saw that Hazel Rath had reached a state in which kindness and
consideration, but no other means, might induce her to tell all she
knew.

"Come now, my good girl," he said in a gentle pleasant voice which would
have astonished Caldew beyond measure if he had heard it, "nobody wants
to torture you. On the contrary, I have come down from London purposely
to help you."

He paused for a moment in order to allow this remark to sink into her
mind and then went on:

"I do not think that you quite understood what I have been trying to
tell you. I will tell you again, and I wish you to listen to me for your
own sake."

He glanced at her again, and satisfied that he had now gained her
attention, repeated the news he had endeavoured to tell her previously.
The story, which he embellished with additional details as he went on,
was a practical demonstration of the trick of conveying a false
impression without telling an actual untruth. Merrington's sole aim was
to convince Hazel that further silence on her part was useless, so, to
that end, he used the incident of his visit to Nepcote's flat in a way
to suggest that Nepcote's admission of the ownership of the revolver
amounted to an admission of his own complicity in the murder.

It was an adroit narration--Merrington conceded that much to himself,
not without some pride in his own creation--but he was not prepared for
its immediate and overmastering effect on the girl. She listened to him
with an intensity of interest which was in the strangest contrast with
her former inattention and indifference. When Merrington reached the
point of his revelations by telling her about the missing necklace in
order to assure her that the police were aware that Nepcote had gained
more from the commission of the crime than she had, she surprised him by
springing to her feet, her eyes blazing with excitement.

"I knew it would be proved that I am innocent," she exclaimed. "Now I
can tell you all I know."

"It is the very best course you can pursue," responded Merrington with
emphasis.

"I know it--I see it now! Oh, I have been very foolish. But I--" A burst
of hysterical tears choked further utterance.

Merrington waited patiently until she recovered herself. He was troubled
by no qualms of gentlemanly etiquette at watching the distress of the
distraught girl sobbing wildly at the little table between them. There
is a wide difference between pampered beauty in distress and a female
prisoner in self-abasement. So he waited composedly enough until she
lifted her head and regarded him with dark wistful eyes through a
glitter of tears.

"You had better tell me all," he said.

"Yes, I will tell you everything now," she quickly replied.

"Before you do so it is my duty to warn you that any statement you make
may be used in evidence against you at your trial," Merrington said,
with a swift resumption of his official manner. "At the same time, I
think you will be acting in your own interest by keeping nothing back."

"I quite understand. But it is such a strange story that I hardly know
how to begin."

"Tell me everything from the first. That will be the best way."

"That night I went up to Mrs. Heredith's room just to see her," she
commenced, almost in a whisper. "My mother had told me earlier in the
evening that she was alone in her room suffering from a headache. I
thought I would take the opportunity while the others were at dinner to
go up to her room and ask her if she wanted anything. So I left my
mother's room and walked quietly down the hall to the left wing. There
was nobody about. All the guests were at dinner, and the servants were
busy in the kitchen and the dining-room.

"When I got upstairs I noticed that Mrs. Heredith's door was open a
little, and I saw that there was no light in the room. I thought that
strange until I remembered she had been suffering from a bad headache,
and probably had turned off the light to rest her head. I did not knock
because I thought she might be asleep. I was just going to turn away
when I heard a sound like a sob within the room. I listened, and heard
it again. I hardly knew what to do at first, but the thought came to me
that perhaps Mrs. Heredith was worse, and needed someone. So I pushed
open the door and went in.

"I know the moat-house well, so I was aware that the switch of the
electric light was by the side of the fireplace, near the head of the
bed, and not close to the door, as in the other rooms. To turn on the
light I had to walk across the room. It was very dark, and I walked
cautiously for fear of stumbling and alarming Mrs. Heredith. Twice I
stopped to listen, and once I heard a sound like somebody whispering. I
was dreadfully nervous because I didn't know whether I was doing right
or wrong by going into Mrs. Heredith's room like that, but something
seemed to urge me on.

"I must have mistaken my direction in the dark, for I couldn't find the
electric switch. I kept running my hand along the wall in search of it,
and while I was doing this, somebody caught me suddenly by the throat.

"All the blood in my veins seemed to turn to ice, and I screamed loudly.
Immediately I screamed the hand let go, but I was too frightened to
move. It was so silent in the room then, that I could hear my own heart
beating, but as I stood there by the wall not daring to move I thought I
heard a rustling sound by the window. My hands kept wandering over the
wall behind me, trying to find the switch of the light. Then, suddenly,
there was a dreadful sound--the report of a gun. It seemed to fill the
room with echoes, which rolled to the window and back again. As the
sound of the report died away, my fingers touched the switch and I
turned on the light.

"I was standing close to the head of the bed, and the first thing I
noticed was something glittering on the carpet at my feet. I stooped and
picked it up. It was a revolver. Then my eyes turned to the bed, and I
saw poor Mrs. Heredith. She was lying quite still with blood on her
mouth. I could see that she was still alive, because her eyes looked at
me. At that terrible sight I forgot everything except that she was in
agony. I was bending over her wiping her mouth when I caught the sound
of footsteps running up the stairs. It flashed across my mind that I
must not be found there, in a room where I had no right to be, holding
in my hand a revolver which had just been discharged. I switched off the
light and ran out of the room. The light from the landing outside guided
me to the door. I had just time to get outside and slip behind the
velvet curtains when some of the gentlemen appeared on the landing.

"I stayed there hidden for some time, too frightened to move, and
expecting every moment to be discovered. I could hear them moving about
searching, and I thought that somebody would draw aside the curtains and
see me hiding underneath. But nobody came near me. I heard them go into
Mrs. Heredith's room, and Mr. Musard started talking. The corridor was
silent, and it seemed to me that I had a chance of escaping downstairs
if the staircase was clear. I crept across to the balusters, still
keeping under the cover of the curtains, and looked over. I could see
nobody in the hall downstairs. I slipped the revolver into my dress and
ran downstairs as quickly as I could. I got to the hall without meeting
anyone, and then I knew that I was safe. But just as I turned into the
passage leading to my mother's rooms I heard the dining-room door open.
I looked back and saw Tufnell come out and go upstairs, but he did not
see me. Then I reached my mother's rooms."

She was silent so long that Merrington thought she had finished her
story. "And what about your brooch--the brooch which you dropped in the
room. When did you get that again?"

"I did not miss it until some time after I had returned downstairs. I
wondered at first where I had dropped it. I then remembered the hand on
my throat, which must have unloosened the brooch and caused it to fall.
I knew it was necessary for me to recover it so it would not be known
that I had been in the room. The house was very quiet then, and the hall
was empty, though I could hear the murmur of voices in the library, so I
walked along the hall and ran upstairs. The door of the bedroom was
partly open, and by the light within I could see that the room was
empty--except for _her_. I went into the room. The first thing I saw was
my little brooch shining on the carpet, close by the bedside, near where
I had been standing when the hand clutched at my throat. I picked it up
and ran downstairs."

"Is that the whole of your story?"

She considered for a moment. "Yes, I think that I have told you
everything."

"What took you to Mrs. Heredith's room in the first place?"

"I--I wanted to see her."

"For what purpose? If you want me to help you, you had better be frank."

"I wished to see the girl whom Mr. Phil had married." She brought out
the answer hesitatingly, but the colour which flooded her thin white
cheeks showed that she was aware of the implication of the admission.

But Merrington was impervious to the finer feelings of the heart. He
disbelieved her story from beginning to end, and was of the opinion that
she was trying to hoax him with a concoction as crude as the vain
imaginings of melodrama or the cinema. It was more with the intention of
trapping her into a contradiction than of eliciting anything of
importance that he continued his questions.

"You say that you heard a noise at the window after the shot was fired.
What did you imagine it to be?"

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