CHAPTER XV
Colwyn had rooms in the upper part of a block of buildings on LudgateHill, looking down on the Circus, above the rookery of passages whichburrow tortuously under the railway arches to Water Lane, Printing HouseSquare, and Blackfriars. It was a strange locality to live in, but itsuited Colwyn. It was in the thick of things. From his windows, high upabove the roar of the traffic, he could watch the ceaseless flow of lifeeastward and westward all day long, and far into the night.
No other part of London offered such variety and scope in the study ofhumanity. The City was stodgy, the Strand too uniform, Piccadilly toofashionable, and the select areas for bachelor chambers, such as theTemple and Half Moon Street, were backwaters as remote from the roaringturbulent stream of London life as the Sussex Downs or the YorkshireMoors.
In addition to these things, the spot offered a fine contrast in walksto suit different moods. There was that avenue of wizardry, FleetStreet, whose high-priests and slaves juggled with the news of theworld; there was the glitter of plate-glass fronts between the Circusand St. Paul's, the twilight stillness of the archway passages and theirlittle squeezed shops, the isolation of Play House Yard and PrintingHouse Square, the bustle of Bridge Street, and the Embankment. From hiswindow Colwyn could see the City shopgirls feeding the pigeons of St.Paul's around the statue of Queen Anne.
To Colwyn, London was the place of adventures. He had lived in New Yorkand Paris, but neither of these cities had for him the same fascinationas the sprawling giant of the Thames. Paris was as stimulating andprovocative as a paid mistress, but palled as quickly. In New Yorkmysteries beckoned at every street corner, but too importunately.Neither city was sufficiently discreet for Colwyn's reticent mind. ButLondon! London was like a woman who hid a secret life beneath an austereface and sober garments. Underneath her air of prim propriety and calmindifference were to be found more enthralling secrets than any othercity of the world could reveal. It was emblematic of London that hermysteries, in their strangest aspects and phases, preserved the air ofordinary events.
Colwyn saw nothing extraordinary in this. To him Life seemed soperpetually inconsistent that there could be nothing inconsistent in anyof its events. It was to his faith in this axiom, expressed after hisown paradoxical fashion, that he partly owed some of those brilliantsuccesses which had stamped him as one of the foremost criminalinvestigators of his day. He never rejected a story on the score of itsimprobability. He had seen so many unusual things in his career that heonce declared that it was the unforeseen, and not the expected, whichoccurs most frequently in this strange world of ours. That was, perhaps,partly due to the wide gulf between human ideals and actions, but,whatever the reason, Colwyn never lost sight of the fact that theincredible, once it happened, became as commonplace as the meals we eator the clothes we wear. It seemed to Colwyn that the unexpected happenedtoo frequently to call forth the astonishment with which it wasinvariably greeted by most people. In his experience, Life was almosttoo prodigal of its surprises, so much so, indeed, as to be in danger ofreaching the limit of its own resources. But he consoled himself,whimsically enough, with the belief that such an event was too probableever to happen.
It was nearly eleven o'clock at night, and Colwyn, getting up from atable where he had been busily writing, walked to the window and lookeddown on the deserted street beneath. It was a nightly custom of his. Helived, as he worked, alone, attended only by a taciturn manservant whohad been with him for many years. He accepted with characteristicphilosophy the view that a man who spent his time unveiling shamefulhuman secrets had no right to share his life with anybody. Even thearticles of furniture of his lonely rooms, if endowed with any sort ofentity, might have worn a furtive air in their consciousness of thesecrets they had heard whispered in their owner's ears by those who hadsought his counsel and assistance in their trouble and despair. Therehad been many such secrets poured forth in those lonely rooms, perchedup high above the roar of the London traffic. It was the Confessional ofthe incredible.
As Colwyn stood at the window, the electric bell of the front door rangsharply through the empty building. Looking down into the street, he sawthe figure of a man in the doorway beneath. He glanced at his watch. Itwas late for a visitor. He walked to the lift at the end of the passageand descended. As he did so, the bell in his rooms once more pealedforth beneath the pressure of an impatient hand.
The visitor, revealed by the light in the hall, was a young man muffledin a thick overcoat for protection against the sharp autumn wind whichwas blowing along the rain-splashed street. He stepped inside the dooras Colwyn opened it, and, glancing at the detective from a pair of darkeyes just visible beneath the flap of his soft felt hat, said:
"Are you Mr. Colwyn?"
"Yes. What can I do for you?"
"I am afraid it is a very late hour for a visit," said the other,brushing the rain drops off his coat as he spoke, "but I should be veryglad if you could spare me a little time, late as it is. I have comefrom the country to see you."
Colwyn nodded without speaking. Strange adventures had come to him atstranger hours. He showed the way to the lift, switched off the electriclight he had turned on in the passage, and ascended with his visitor tohis rooms. There his companion, with an impulsiveness which contrastedwith the detective's quiet composure, again spoke:
"I want your assistance, Mr. Colwyn."
"Will you not be seated?" said the detective, as with a swift glance hetook in the external attributes of his young and well-dressed visitor.
"Thank you. I regret to disturb you at such a late hour, but the train Itravelled by was greatly delayed by an accident. I thought at first ofpostponing my visit till the morning, but it is so urgent--to me, at allevents--that I determined to try and see you to-night."
"It was just as well that you did. I may be called out of London in themorning."
"Then I am glad that I came. My name is Heredith--Philip Heredith."
Colwyn looked at his visitor with a keener interest. The Londonnewspapers were full of the particulars of the moat-house crime, and hadpublished intimate accounts of the Heredith family, their wealth, socialposition, and standing in the county. Colwyn, as he glanced at PhilipHeredith, came to the conclusion that the London picture papers had beenonce more guilty of deceiving their credulous readers. The portraitsthey had published of him in no wise resembled the young man who was nowseated opposite him, regarding him with a sad and troubled look.
"I have heard of your great skill and cleverness in criminalinvestigation, Mr. Colwyn," continued Phil earnestly, "and wish to availmyself of your help. That is the object of my visit."
Colwyn waited for his visitor to disclose the reasons which had broughthim, seeking advice. He had followed the newspaper accounts of themurder and police investigations with keen interest. The specialcorrespondents had done full justice to the arrest of Hazel Rath. Thereis no room for reticence or delicacy in modern journalism, and noreserves except those dictated by fear of the law for libel. Colwyn wastherefore aware that Hazel Rath figured as "the woman in the case," andwas supposed to have shot the young wife in a fit of jealousy. Thenewspapers, in publishing these disclosures, had hinted at the existenceof previous tender relations between the young husband and the arrestedgirl, in order to whet the public appetite for the "remarkablerevelations" which it was hoped would be brought forward at the trial.
"I have come to consult you about the murder of my wife," continuedPhil, speaking with an evident effort. "I should like you to make someinvestigations."
Colwyn was sufficiently false to his own philosophy of life toexperience a feeling which he would have been the first to admit wassurprise.
"The police have already made an arrest in the case," he said.
"I believe they have arrested an innocent girl."
As the young man sat there, he looked so worn and ill that Colwyn felthis sympathy go out to him. He seemed too boyish and frail to bear sucha weight of tragedy on his shoulders at the outset of his li
fe. His facewore an aspect of despair.
"If you think that a mistake has been made, you had better go toScotland Yard," said Colwyn.
"I have already spoken to Detective Caldew, but his attitude convincedme that it was hopeless to expect any assistance from Scotland Yard, soI decided to come to you."
"In that case you had better tell me all that you know, if you wish meto help you," said the detective. "In the first place, I wish to hearall the facts of the murder itself. I have read the newspaper accounts,but they necessarily lack those more intimate details which may mean somuch. I should like to hear everything from beginning to end."
In a voice which was still weak from illness, Phil did as he wasrequested, and related the strange sequence of events which had happenedat the moat-house on the night of his wife's murder. Those events, as hedescribed them, took on a new complexion to his listener, suggesting adeeper and more complex mystery than the newspaper accounts of thecrime.
From the first the moat-house murder had appealed to Colwyn'simagination and stimulated his intellectual curiosity. There was thepathos of the youth and sex of the victim, murdered in a peacefulcountry home. The terrible primality of murder accords more easily withthe elemental gregariousness of slum existence; its horror isaccentuated, by force of contrast, in the tender simplicity of anEnglish sylvan setting. Colwyn's chief interest lay in the fact that,although the case against Hazel Rath was as strong as circumstantialevidence could make it, the supposed motive for the crime was weak. Buthe reflected that there did not exist in human life any motivesufficiently strong to warrant the commission of a crime like murder.Probably no great murder had ever been justified by motive, in the sensethat incitement is vindication, though human nature, ever on the alertin defence of itself, was prone to accept such excuses as passion andrevenge as adequate motives for destruction. The point which perplexedColwyn in this particular case was whether the incitement of jealousywas sufficient to impel a young girl, brought up in good socialenvironment, which is ever a conventional deterrent to violent crime, tomurder her rival in a sudden gust of passion.
"Now, let me hear your reasons for thinking that the police have made amistake in arresting Hazel Rath," the detective said, when Phil hadconcluded his narration of the events of the night of the murder. "Thecase against her seems very strong."
"Nevertheless, I feel sure she did not do it," said Phil emphatically."I understand her nature and disposition too well to believe her guilty.I have known her since childhood. She has a sweet and gentle nature."
"I am afraid your personal opinion will count for very little againstthe weight of evidence," replied Colwyn. "It is impossible to generalizein a crime like murder. My experience is that the most unlikely peoplecommit violent crimes under sudden stress. Unless you have somethingmore to go upon than that, your protestations will count for very littleat the trial. Criminal judges know too well that human nature is capableof almost anything except sustained goodness."
It was the same point of view, only differently expressed, thatSuperintendent Merrington had advanced to Captain Stanhill at themoat-house the evening after the murder.
"I have other reasons for thinking Hazel Rath innocent," replied Phil."If she had murdered my wife we would have seen her as we rushedupstairs after hearing the scream and shot. She hadn't time to escape."
"What about the window of your wife's room?"
"It is nearly twenty feet from the ground, so that would be impossible."
"How do you account for the brooch being found in your wife's bedroom?Is there any doubt that it belongs to Hazel Rath?"
"It is quite true that the brooch is hers. I gave it to her on herbirthday, some years ago. The police think that Hazel is in love withme, and murdered my wife through jealousy. But that is not true. I haveknown her since she was a little girl, and regarded her as a sister."
Phil uttered these words with a ringing sincerity which it wasimpossible to doubt. But that statement, Colwyn reflected, did not carrythem very far. The speaker might honestly believe that the feelingexisting between himself and Hazel Rath was like the affection ofbrother and sister, but he was speaking for himself, and not for thegirl. Who could read the secret of a woman's heart? The real questionwas, did Hazel Rath love Philip Heredith? There lay a motive for themurder, if she did.
"Does Hazel Rath still refuse to explain how her brooch came to be foundin Mrs. Heredith's bedroom and subsequently disappeared?" inquiredColwyn after a short pause.
"I understand that she persists in remaining silent," returned the youngman. "Oh, I admit the case seems suspicious against her," he continuedpassionately, as though in answer to a slight shrug of the detective'sshoulders. "It is for that reason I have come to you. I believe herinnocent, and I want you to try and establish her innocence."
"I am afraid I must decline, Mr. Heredith." A sympathetic glance ofColwyn's eyes softened the firm tone of the refusal. "Apart from yourown belief in Miss Rath's innocence, you have very little to go upon."
"There is more than that to go upon," said Phil. "There is the questionof the identity of the revolver. Hazel is supposed to have obtained itfrom the gun-room."
"I know that from the newspaper reports."
"Yes, but you do not know that the detectives have not been able toestablish the ownership of the weapon until to-day. They were under theimpression that it belonged to the moat-house, but neither my father noraunt was able to settle the point. Detective Caldew visited themoat-house to-day to see if I could identify it. I immediatelyrecognized it as the property of Captain Nepcote."
"Who is Captain Nepcote?"
"He is a friend of mine. I knew him in London before I was married. Hewas a friend of my wife's also. He was one of our guests at themoat-house until the day of the murder."
"Did he leave before the murder was committed?"
"Yes; some hours before."
"Then how did Hazel Rath obtain possession of his revolver?"
"That is what I do not know. I must tell you that the day before themurder some of our guests spent a wet afternoon amusing themselvesshooting at a target in the gun-room. They were using Captain Nepcote'srevolver. When I told Detective Caldew this, he came to the conclusionthat Nepcote must have left it there after the shooting, and Hazel Rathfound it when she went to look for a weapon."
"I see. And what is your own opinion?"
"I do not believe it for one moment."
"Why not?"
"For one thing, it strikes me as unlikely that Nepcote would forget hisrevolver when leaving the gun-room. In any case, the police are takingtoo much for granted in assuming, without inquiry, that he did. Caldewtold me that the question of the ownership of the revolver did notaffect the case against Hazel Rath in the slightest degree."
"Do you know whether the revolver was seen by anybody between the timeof Captain Nepcote's departure and its discovery in Hazel Rath'spossession?"
"I understand that it was not."
"Do you know whether Captain Nepcote took it from the gun-room after thetarget shooting?"
"That I cannot say. I left the gun-room before the shooting wasfinished."
"Let me see if I thoroughly understand the position," said Colwyn. "Inyour narrative of the events of the murder you stated that all themembers of the household and the guests were in the dining-room when themurder was committed. Nepcote was not there because he had returned toLondon during the afternoon. Nevertheless, it was with his revolver thatyour wife was shot."
"That is correct," said Phil.
"If Nepcote did not leave his revolver in the gun-room the police theorywould be upset on an important point, and the case would take on a newaspect. Have you any suspicions that you have not confided to me?"
"I cannot say that I have any particular suspicions," the young manreplied. "I do not know what to think, but I should like to have thisterrible mystery cleared up. I have not seen Nepcote since the day ofthe murder to ask him about the revolver. He said good-bye to me beforehe left, an
d I understood that he had received a wire from the WarOffice recalling him to the front. After the murder I was taken ill, asI have told you, and it was not until to-day that I was informed of whathappened during my illness."
"I am inclined to agree with you that the case wants furtherinvestigation," said Colwyn.
"Then will you undertake it?" asked Phil.
The feeling that he was face to face with one of the deepest mysteriesof his career acted as an irresistible call to Colwyn's intellect. Heconsulted the leaves of his engagement book.
"Yes, I will come," he said.
Phil glanced at his watch.
"I am afraid we can hardly catch the last train to Heredith," he said.
"We will drive down in my car," said Colwyn. "Please excuse me for a fewmoments."
He left the room, and returned in a few moments fully equipped for thejourney.
"Let us start," he said.
His tone was decided and imperative, his movements quick and full ofenergy. That was wholly like him, once he had decided on his course.
The Hand in the Dark Page 15