The Hand in the Dark

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

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"Do you know the names of these girl friends who used to write to her?"
asked Merrington.

Miss Heredith replied that she did not.

"I suppose her husband would know them?"

"It is quite impossible to question my nephew," said Miss Heredith
decisively. "He is dreadfully ill."

Merrington nodded in a dissatisfied sort of way. He was aware of Phil's
illness, and his suspicious mind wondered whether it had been assumed
for the occasion in order to keep back something which the police ought
to know. His thick lip curled savagely at the idea. If these people
tried to hide anything from him in order to save a scandal, so much the
worse for them. But that was something he would go into later.

The next questions he put to Miss Heredith were designed to ascertain
what she thought of the murder, whether she had any suspicions of her
own, and whether there was any reason for suspecting Miss Heredith
herself. At that stage of the inquiry it was Merrington's business to
suspect everybody. He could not afford to allow the slightest chance to
slip. His object was to get at the truth; to weigh each particle of
supposition or evidence without regard to the feelings or social
position of the witness.

The case so far puzzled him, and Miss Heredith's answers to his
questions revealed little about the murder that he had not previously
known. The only additional facts he gleaned related to the murdered
girl's brief existence at the moat-house; of her earlier history and her
London life Miss Heredith knew nothing whatever. Merrington made some
notes of the replies in an imposing pocket-book, but he was plainly
dissatisfied as he turned to another phase of the investigation.

"Were all your guests in the dining-room at the time the scream and the
shot were heard?" he asked.

"They were all there when I left the room. The butler can tell you if
any left afterwards."

"I will question Tufnell on that point later. No, on second thoughts, it
will be better to settle it now. I attach importance to it."

Tufnell was recalled to the room, and, in reply to Superintendent
Merrington's question, stated that none of the guests left the
dining-room before the shot was fired. Tufnell added they were all
interested in listening to a story that Mr. Musard was telling. Having
imparted this information the butler returned to the breakfast room,
overweighted with the responsibility of superintending the morning meal
in his mistress's absence.

"Is this Musard the jewel expert of that name?" asked Merrington.

"Our guest is Mr. Vincent Musard, the explorer," replied Miss Heredith
coldly.

"The same man." Merrington made another minute note in his pocket-book,
and continued, "May I take it, then, that all your guests who were
staying here were assembled in the dining-room at the time the murder
was committed?"

"Yes; except one who left during the afternoon."

"Who was that?"

"Captain Nepcote, a friend of my nephew's. He received a telegram
recalling him to the front, and returned to London by the afternoon
train."

Merrington made a note of this in his pocket-book with an air of
finality, and asked Miss Heredith to see that the servants were sent to
the library one by one, to be questioned. Miss Heredith said she would
arrange it with the housekeeper, and was then politely escorted to the
door by Captain Stanhill.

The next few hours were educative for Captain Stanhill. Although he was
Chief Constable of Sussex, he took no part in the proceedings, but sat
at the table like a man in a dream, living in a world of Superintendent
Merrington's creation--a world of sinister imaginings and vile motives,
through which stealthy suspicion prowled craftily with padded feet,
seeking a victim among the procession of weeping maids, stolid
under-gardeners, stable hands, and anxious upper servants who presented
themselves in the library to be questioned. But it seemed to Captain
Stanhill that though the women were flustered and the men nervous, they
knew nothing whatever about the atrocious murder which had been
committed a few hours before in the room above their heads. Merrington
also seemed to be aware that he was getting no nearer the truth with his
traps, his questions, and his bullying, and he grew so angry and savage
as the day wore on that he reminded Captain Stanhill of a bull he had
once seen trying to rend a way through a mesh. As the morning advanced,
Merrington's face took on a deeper tint of purple, his fierce little
eyes grew more bloodshot, and between the intervals of examining the
servants he mopped his perspiring head with a large handkerchief.

The significance of one fact he did not realize until afterwards. The
last of the inmates of the moat-house to come to the library was the
housekeeper, Mrs. Rath, who presented herself at his request in order to
acquaint him with the details of the domestic management of the
household. Mrs. Rath entered the room with a nervous air. Her white face
contrasted oddly with her black dress, and her hands shook slightly, in
spite of her effort to appear composed. Merrington stared at her
careworn face and hollow grey eyes with the perplexed sensation of a man
who is confronted with a face familiar to him, but is unable to recall
its identity.

"Where have I seen you before?" he blurted out.

The housekeeper raised frightened eyes, ringed with black, to his
truculent face, but dropped them again without speaking. Merrington did
not repeat his question. He did not imagine the housekeeper knew
anything about the murder, but it was a mistake to put a witness on her
guard. It was in quite a different tone that he thanked Mrs. Rath for
sending the servants to the library, and asked her to describe the
household arrangements of the previous night. Mrs. Rath, who had been
palpably nervous after his first question, became reassured and more at
her ease, and answered him intelligently.

"And where were you at the time of the murder, Mrs. Rath?" pursued
Merrington, when he had drawn forth these details.

"I was in my sitting-room."

"Did you hear the scream and the shot?"

"I heard the scream, but not the shot."

"How was that?"

"My sitting-room is a long way from Mrs. Heredith's room. Perhaps that
is the reason."

Merrington looked at the position of the housekeeper's room on the plan
of the moat-house which Caldew had drawn. As she said, it was a
considerable distance to her room, which was in the old portion of the
house, near the rear, and on the ground floor.

"Were you alone in your room?" he asked.

"No. My daughter was sitting with me."

To a quick ear it may have seemed that the answer was a trifle long in
coming.

Merrington shook his head irritably. Really, it seemed impossible to
reach the end of the people who were in this infernal moat-house at the
time of the murder.

"Does your daughter live with you here?" he asked.

"Oh, no. She came to see me yesterday afternoon, and stayed all night
because she missed her train back after--after the tragedy."

"Is she here now?"

"No. She went away by an early train. She is employed as a milliner at
Stading, the market town, which is ten miles away."

"She lives there, I suppose?"

"Yes. She lives in."

"Who is her employer?"

"Mr. Closeby, the draper. Daniel Closeby and Son is the name of the
firm."

Merrington made another note in his pocket-book. It sounded plausible
enough, but the girl must be added to the lengthening list of people in
the case who would have to be seen.

"I think that is all I need detain you for, Mrs. Rath," he said.

The housekeeper lingered to inquire when the gentlemen would like their
lunch. Merrington, who had breakfasted early and passed an arduous
morning, replied bluntly that it could not be too soon to please him.

"I'll have it served in the small breakfast-room in a quarter of an
hour," said Mrs. Rath, hurrying away.

Her whole bearing, as she departed, indicated such an air of
irrepressible relief at having passed through a trying ordeal that all
Merrington's former doubts of her revived.

"I'd give something to remember where I've seen that infernal woman
before," he ejaculated, slapping his thigh emphatically.

"What infernal woman?" asked Captain Stanhill, who had come to the
conclusion that he did not like Superintendent Merrington or his style
of conversation.

"Why, that woman who has just left the room--that housekeeper. I've seen
her before somewhere, in very different circumstances, but I cannot
recall where. I recollect her face distinctly--particularly her eyes. I
flatter myself I never forget a pair of eyes. Confound it, where the
devil have I seen her?"

Captain Stanhill turned away indifferently, and the conversation was
terminated by the appearance of Detective Caldew, who appeared in the
doorway as Mrs. Rath left the room.

"Dr. Holmes is waiting in the drawing-room if you wish to see him," he
announced.

"Bring him here," commanded Merrington curtly. He had a great notion of
his self-importance, and had no intention of dancing attendance on a
mere country practitioner.

Caldew went away, and shortly reappeared with a little man whom he
introduced as Dr. Holmes. The doctor was a meagre shrimp of humanity,
with a peevish expression on his withered little face, as though he were
bored with his own nonentity. He was dressed in faded clothes and
carried a small black bag in one hand and a worn hat in the other. If he
had any idea of airing a professional protest at being compelled to wait
upon the police, the thought vanished as his eye took in the stupendous
stature of Superintendent Merrington, who towered above him like a
mastiff standing over a toy terrier.

"Sit down, doctor," he curtly commanded. "I want to ask you a few
questions about the death of Mrs. Heredith. You examined the body, I
understand?"

Dr. Holmes bowed, put on a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles in order to
see Superintendent Merrington better, and waited to be questioned.

"I understand you were summoned to the moat-house last night, doctor,
after Mrs. Heredith was murdered, and examined the body. What was the
cause of death?"

"The cause of death was a bullet wound," pronounced the doctor
oracularly.

"I am aware of that much," answered Merrington irritably. "But a bullet
wound is not necessarily fatal. Mrs. Heredith lived some time after her
death, so it is certain that the bullet which killed her did not
penetrate the heart. What is the nature of the injuries it inflicted?"

"Death in Mrs. Heredith's case was the result of a bullet passing
through the left lung. It passed between the second and third ribs in
entering the body, traversed the lung, causing a great flow of blood,
which filled the air passages."

"Then the cause of death was haemorrhage?"

"Yes. There was very severe internal haemorrhage. The face and the
left-hand side of the neck were covered with blood. There had also been
bleeding from the mouth and nose. Mr. Musard, who accompanied me to the
room, told me he had washed it away while Mrs. Heredith was dying, in an
endeavour to staunch the flow."

"She was quite dead when you saw her?"

"Oh, yes. Judging by the warmth of the body, and by the fact that blood
had ceased to flow, I should say that death had taken place about forty
minutes before."

"What time did you reach the moat-house?"

"It would be about twenty minutes past eight. Sergeant Lumbe called at
my house at ten minutes past the hour--I made a note of the time--and I
went immediately. It is about ten minutes' walk to the moat-house from
the village."

"Was the main blood vessel of the lung broken?" asked Captain Stanhill,
who had been following the doctor's remarks with close attention.

"The aorta? It is difficult to say from an external examination. Mr.
Musard tells me that Mrs. Heredith died about five minutes after he
reached the room. The aorta is a very large vessel, and if it were burst
bleeding to death would be very rapid."

"Could the wound have been self-inflicted?" asked Merrington.

Dr. Holmes pursed his lips.

"I can form no definite opinion on that point," he said. "By the
direction of the bullet, I should say not."

"Have you found the bullet?"

"No, it is in the body. As apparently it took a course towards the right
after entering the body, and there is no corresponding wound in the
back, I should say that it is lodged somewhere in the vertical column.
Of course, I cannot be sure."

"The Government pathologist will clear up these points when he makes the
post-mortem examination," said Merrington. "I do not think we have any
more questions to ask you, doctor."

"How is your patient, the young husband?" asked Captain Stanhill, as Dr.
Holmes rose.

"The symptoms point to brain fever. The family, on my advice, have sent
to London for Sir Ralph Horton, the eminent brain doctor."

"I do not wonder his mind has given way under the shock," remarked
Captain Stanhill. "To lose his wife in such terrible circumstances after
three months' marriage must have been a cruel blow."

"It was the worse in his case because he has always been nervous and
highly strung from childhood--partly, I think, as the result of his
infirmity. He has a deformed foot. His present illness seems to be a
complete overthrow of the nervous system. I have been with him the
greater part of the night. He has been highly delirious, but he is a
little quieter now."

Merrington pricked up his ears at this last remark. After his fruitless
investigations of the morning he was inclined to think that the clue to
the murder lay in the past--it might be in some former folly or secret
intrigue of the young wife's single days. The question was, in that
case, whether the husband was likely to have any knowledge of his wife's
secret. If he had, he might, in his delirium, babble something which
would provide a clue to trace the murderer. It was a poor chance, but
the poorest chance was worth trying in such a baffling case.

"I should like to have a look at your patient," he said to Dr. Holmes.

"It would be impossible to question him in his present state," replied
the doctor stiffly.

"I do not wish to question him. I merely wish to look at him."

"In that case you may see him. He is quite unconscious, and recognizes
nobody. I will take you to his room, if you wish."

The little doctor bustled along the corridor, and turned into a passage
traversing the right wing of the moat-house. About half way down it he
paused before a door, which he opened softly, and motioned to the other
two to enter.

It was a single bedroom, panelled in oak, which was dark with age, with
one small window; but it had the advantage of being as far away as
possible from the upstairs bedroom in the left wing where Phil's wife
lay murdered. A small fire burnt in the grate, a china bowl of autumn
flowers bloomed on a table near the bedside, and a capable looking nurse
was preparing a draught by the window. She glanced at the three men as
they entered, but went on with her occupation.

The sick man lay on his back, breathing heavily. His black hair framed a
face which was ghastly in its whiteness, and his upturned eyes, barely
visible beneath the half-closed lids, seemed fixed and motionless.

"Any change, nurse?" the doctor asked.

"No change, sir."

But even as she spoke Phil's face changed in a manner which was
wonderful in its suddenness. His features became contorted, as though a
sword had been thrust through his vitals, and he struggled upright in
his bed, with one shaking hand outstretched. His eyes, glaring with
delirium, roved restlessly over the faces of the men at the foot of the
bed.

"She's dead, I tell you! Violet's dead.... Have they found him? Ah,
who's that?"

Once again he uttered his young wife's name, and fell back on the
pillow, motionless as before, but with one arm athwart his face, as
though to cover his eyes.

"I shall be glad if you will leave the room," said the little doctor
gravely. "Your presence excites him." He hurried round to the bedside
and bent over his patient.

CHAPTER IX

"Have you formed any theory of the murder yet?"

It was the evening of the same day, and Superintendent Merrington and
Captain Stanhill were once more in the moat-house library. It was
Captain Stanhill who asked the question, as he stood warming his little
legs in front of a crackling fire of oak logs which had just been
lighted in the gloomy depths of the big fireplace. Although it was early
in autumn, the evening air was chill.

Superintendent Merrington was walking up and down the room with rapid
strides, occasionally glancing with some impatience at the clock which
ticked with cheerful indifference on the mantelpiece. He was about to
return to London, but was waiting for the return of Detective Caldew and
Sergeant Lumbe. Caldew had cycled to Chidelham to see the Weynes, and
Lumbe had been sent to investigate a telephoned report of a suspicious
stranger seen at a hamlet called Tibblestone, some miles away.

Merrington's face wore a gloomy and dissatisfied expression. He had
spent the afternoon in a whirlwind of energy in which he had done many
things. He had explored the moat-house from top to bottom, squeezing his
vast bulk into every obscure corner of the rambling old place. He had
rowed round the moat in a small boat, scrutinizing the outside wall for
footmarks. He had mustered the male servants, and superintended an
organized beat of the grounds, the woods, and the neighbouring heights.
He had interviewed the village station-master to ascertain if any
stranger had arrived at Heredith the previous day, and had made similar
inquiries by telephone at the adjoining stations. He had inspected the
horses and vehicles at the village inn to see if they showed marks of
recent usage, and he had peremptorily interrogated everybody he came
across to find out whether any one unknown in the district had been seen
skulking about the neighbourhood.

Merrington lacked the subtle and penetrative brain of a really great
detective, but he possessed energy, initiative, and observation. These
qualities had stood him in good stead before, but in this case they had
brought nothing to light. The mystery and meaning of the terrible murder
of the previous night were no nearer solution than when he had arrived
to take up the case, ten hours before.

The most baffling aspect of the crime to him was the apparent lack of
motive and the absence of any clue. In most murders there are generally
some presumptive clues to guide those called upon to investigate the
crime--such things as finger-prints or footprints, a previous threat or
admission, an overheard conversation, a chance word, or a compromising
letter. Such clues may not prove much in themselves, but they serve as
finger-posts. Even the time, which in some cases of murder offers a
valuable help to solution, in this case tended to shield the murderer.
It seemed as though the murderer had chosen an unusual time and unusual
conditions to shield his identity more thoroughly and make discovery
impossible.

The case was full of sinister possibilities and perplexities. It bore
the stamp of deep premeditation and calculated skill. As the crime was
apparently motiveless, it was certain that the motive was deep and
carefully hidden. The only definite conclusion that Merrington had
reached was that the murderer would have to be sought further afield,
probably in London, where the dead girl had lived all her life. There
seemed not the slightest reason to suspect anybody in the neighbourhood,
as she was a stranger to the district, and knew nobody in it except Mrs.
Weyne, who lived some miles away. It was unfortunate that her husband,
who was the only person able to give any information about her earlier
life, was too ill to be questioned.

On hearing Captain Stanhill's question, Merrington paused abruptly in
his impatient pacing of the carpet, and glanced at him covertly from his
deep-set little eyes. If he had consulted his own feelings he would have
told the Chief Constable that it was not the time to air theories about
the crime. But in his present position it behoved him to walk warily and
not make an enemy of his colleague. If there was to be an outburst of
public indignation because the murderer in this case had not been
immediately discovered and brought to justice, it would be just as well
if the county police shared the burden of responsibility. Merrington
realized that he could best make Captain Stanhill feel his
responsibility by taking him fully into his confidence. He was aware
that he had practically ignored the Chief Constable in the course of the
day's investigations, and it was desirable to remove any feeling that
treatment may have caused. Superintendent Merrington had the greatest
contempt for the county police, but there were times when it was
judicious to dissemble that feeling. The present moment was one of them.

Captain Stanhill, on his part, cherished no animosity against his
companion for his cavalier treatment of him. He realized his own
inexperience in crime detection, and had been quite willing that
Superintendent Merrington should take the lead in the investigations,
which he had assisted to the best of his ability. He thought Merrington
rather an unpleasant type, but he was overawed by his great reputation
as a detective, and impressed by his energy and massive self-confidence.
The Chief Constable had not asserted his own official position, because
he was aware that he was unable to give competent help in such a
baffling case. He was, above all things, anxious that the murderer of
Violet Heredith should be captured and brought to justice as speedily as
possible, and he had no thought of his personal dignity so long as that
end was achieved.

The abstract ideal of human justice is supposed to be based on the
threefold aims of punishment, prevention, and reformation, but the heart
of the average man, when confronted by grevious wrong, is swayed by no
higher impulse than immediate retribution on the wrongdoer. Captain
Stanhill was an average man, and his feelings, harrowed by the spectacle
of the bleeding corpse of the young wife, and the pitiful condition to
which her murder had reduced her young husband, clamoured for
retribution, swift, complete, and implacable, on the being who had
committed this horrible crime. And he hoped that the famous detective
would be able to assure him that his desire was likely to have a speedy
attainment. That was why he asked Merrington whether he had formed any
theory about the crime.

"It would be too much to say that I have formed a theory," replied
Merrington, in response to Captain Stanhill's question. "It is necessary
to have clues for the formation of a theory, and in this case we are
faced with a complete absence of clues."

"Do you not think that the trinket found by Detective Caldew in Mrs.
Heredith's bedroom has some bearing on the murder?" said Captain
Stanhill.

"I attach no importance to it. There were a number of persons in the
bedroom after the murder was committed, and any of them might have
dropped the ornament. Or it may have been lost there days before by a
servant, and escaped notice."

"But it was picked up again during Caldew's absence from the room. Do
you not regard that as suspicious? Detective Caldew, when he was
relating the incident to us this morning, seemed to think that the
trinket belonged to the murderer, who took the risk of returning to the
room to recover it for fear it might form a clue leading to discovery."

"Caldew reads too much into his discovery," replied Merrington, with an
indulgent smile. "Like all young detectives, he is inclined to attach
undue importance to small points. As I told him, I cannot imagine a
murderer taking such a desperate risk as to return to the spot where he
had killed his victim, in order to search for a trinket he had dropped.
Caldew may have concealed the brooch so effectually in the thick folds
of the velvet carpet that he could not find it again when he looked for
it on his return to the room. That explanation strikes me as probable as
his own theory of a mysterious midnight intruder returning to search for
it while he was out of the room. The trinket may have some connection
with the crime, or it may not, but as I have not seen it I prefer to
leave it out of my calculation altogether. This case is going to be
difficult enough to solve without chasing chimeras. But to return to
your question. Although I have not actually formed a theory, my
preliminary investigations of the circumstances have led me to arrive at
certain conclusions and to exclude possibilities I was at first inclined
to adopt. I will go over the case in detail, and then you will see for
yourself the conclusions I have formed, and understand how I have
arrived at them.

"In the first place, the greatest problem of this murder is the apparent
lack of motive. There seems to be no reason why this young lady should
have been killed. She had only recently been married, and, apparently,
married happily, to a wealthy young man of good family, who was very
much in love with her. It is obvious that money difficulties have
nothing to do with the crime. Her husband is the only son of a wealthy
father, and he is able to give his wife everything that a woman needs
for her happiness and comfort. She is cherished, petted, and loved, and
has a beautiful home. Who, therefore, had an object in putting an end to
this young woman's life in her own home, in circumstances and conditions
attended with the utmost possibility of discovery and capture? The
perpetrator of the deed must have acted from some very strong motive or
impulse to venture into a country-house full of people, at a time when
everybody was indoors, in order to kill his victim.

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