Chapter 3
The Tragedy of Birlstone
Now for a moment I will ask leave to remove my own insignificantpersonality and to describe events which occurred before we arrivedupon the scene by the light of knowledge which came to us afterwards.Only in this way can I make the reader appreciate the people concernedand the strange setting in which their fate was cast.
The village of Birlstone is a small and very ancient cluster ofhalf-timbered cottages on the northern border of the county of Sussex.For centuries it had remained unchanged; but within the last few yearsits picturesque appearance and situation have attracted a number ofwell-to-do residents, whose villas peep out from the woods around.These woods are locally supposed to be the extreme fringe of the greatWeald forest, which thins away until it reaches the northern chalkdowns. A number of small shops have come into being to meet the wantsof the increased population; so there seems some prospect thatBirlstone may soon grow from an ancient village into a modern town. Itis the centre for a considerable area of country, since TunbridgeWells, the nearest place of importance, is ten or twelve miles to theeastward, over the borders of Kent.
About half a mile from the town, standing in an old park famous for itshuge beech trees, is the ancient Manor House of Birlstone. Part of thisvenerable building dates back to the time of the first crusade, whenHugo de Capus built a fortalice in the centre of the estate, which hadbeen granted to him by the Red King. This was destroyed by fire in1543, and some of its smoke-blackened corner stones were used when, inJacobean times, a brick country house rose upon the ruins of the feudalcastle.
The Manor House, with its many gables and its small diamond-panedwindows, was still much as the builder had left it in the earlyseventeenth century. Of the double moats which had guarded its morewarlike predecessor, the outer had been allowed to dry up, and servedthe humble function of a kitchen garden. The inner one was still there,and lay forty feet in breadth, though now only a few feet in depth,round the whole house. A small stream fed it and continued beyond it,so that the sheet of water, though turbid, was never ditch-like orunhealthy. The ground floor windows were within a foot of the surfaceof the water.
The only approach to the house was over a drawbridge, the chains andwindlass of which had long been rusted and broken. The latest tenantsof the Manor House had, however, with characteristic energy, set thisright, and the drawbridge was not only capable of being raised, butactually was raised every evening and lowered every morning. By thusrenewing the custom of the old feudal days the Manor House wasconverted into an island during the night--a fact which had a verydirect bearing upon the mystery which was soon to engage the attentionof all England.
The house had been untenanted for some years and was threatening tomoulder into a picturesque decay when the Douglases took possession ofit. This family consisted of only two individuals--John Douglas and hiswife. Douglas was a remarkable man, both in character and in person. Inage he may have been about fifty, with a strong-jawed, rugged face, agrizzling moustache, peculiarly keen gray eyes, and a wiry, vigorousfigure which had lost nothing of the strength and activity of youth. Hewas cheery and genial to all, but somewhat offhand in his manners,giving the impression that he had seen life in social strata on somefar lower horizon than the county society of Sussex.
Yet, though looked at with some curiosity and reserve by his morecultivated neighbours, he soon acquired a great popularity among thevillagers, subscribing handsomely to all local objects, and attendingtheir smoking concerts and other functions, where, having a remarkablyrich tenor voice, he was always ready to oblige with an excellent song.He appeared to have plenty of money, which was said to have been gainedin the California gold fields, and it was clear from his own talk andthat of his wife that he had spent a part of his life in America.
The good impression which had been produced by his generosity and byhis democratic manners was increased by a reputation gained for utterindifference to danger. Though a wretched rider, he turned out at everymeet, and took the most amazing falls in his determination to hold hisown with the best. When the vicarage caught fire he distinguishedhimself also by the fearlessness with which he reentered the buildingto save property, after the local fire brigade had given it up asimpossible. Thus it came about that John Douglas of the Manor House hadwithin five years won himself quite a reputation in Birlstone.
His wife, too, was popular with those who had made her acquaintance;though, after the English fashion, the callers upon a stranger whosettled in the county without introductions were few and far between.This mattered the less to her, as she was retiring by disposition, andvery much absorbed, to all appearance, in her husband and her domesticduties. It was known that she was an English lady who had met Mr.Douglas in London, he being at that time a widower. She was a beautifulwoman, tall, dark, and slender, some twenty years younger than herhusband, a disparity which seemed in no wise to mar the contentment oftheir family life.
It was remarked sometimes, however, by those who knew them best, thatthe confidence between the two did not appear to be complete, since thewife was either very reticent about her husband's past life, or else,as seemed more likely, was imperfectly informed about it. It had alsobeen noted and commented upon by a few observant people that there weresigns sometimes of some nerve-strain upon the part of Mrs. Douglas, andthat she would display acute uneasiness if her absent husband shouldever be particularly late in his return. On a quiet countryside, whereall gossip is welcome, this weakness of the lady of the Manor House didnot pass without remark, and it bulked larger upon people's memory whenthe events arose which gave it a very special significance.
There was yet another individual whose residence under that roof was,it is true, only an intermittent one, but whose presence at the time ofthe strange happenings which will now be narrated brought his nameprominently before the public. This was Cecil James Barker, of HalesLodge, Hampstead.
Cecil Barker's tall, loose-jointed figure was a familiar one in themain street of Birlstone village; for he was a frequent and welcomevisitor at the Manor House. He was the more noticed as being the onlyfriend of the past unknown life of Mr. Douglas who was ever seen in hisnew English surroundings. Barker was himself an undoubted Englishman;but by his remarks it was clear that he had first known Douglas inAmerica and had there lived on intimate terms with him. He appeared tobe a man of considerable wealth, and was reputed to be a bachelor.
In age he was rather younger than Douglas--forty-five at the most--atall, straight, broad-chested fellow with a clean-shaved, prize-fighterface, thick, strong, black eyebrows, and a pair of masterful black eyeswhich might, even without the aid of his very capable hands, clear away for him through a hostile crowd. He neither rode nor shot, butspent his days in wandering round the old village with his pipe in hismouth, or in driving with his host, or in his absence with his hostess,over the beautiful countryside. "An easy-going, free-handed gentleman,"said Ames, the butler. "But, my word! I had rather not be the man thatcrossed him!" He was cordial and intimate with Douglas, and he was noless friendly with his wife--a friendship which more than once seemedto cause some irritation to the husband, so that even the servants wereable to perceive his annoyance. Such was the third person who was oneof the family when the catastrophe occurred.
As to the other denizens of the old building, it will suffice out of alarge household to mention the prim, respectable, and capable Ames, andMrs. Allen, a buxom and cheerful person, who relieved the lady of someof her household cares. The other six servants in the house bear norelation to the events of the night of January 6th.
It was at eleven forty-five that the first alarm reached the smalllocal police station, in charge of Sergeant Wilson of the SussexConstabulary. Cecil Barker, much excited, had rushed up to the door andpealed furiously upon the bell. A terrible tragedy had occurred at theManor House, and John Douglas had been murdered. That was thebreathless burden of his message. He had hurried back to the house,followed within a few minutes by the police sergeant, who ar
rived atthe scene of the crime a little after twelve o'clock, after takingprompt steps to warn the county authorities that something serious wasafoot.
On reaching the Manor House, the sergeant had found the drawbridgedown, the windows lighted up, and the whole household in a state ofwild confusion and alarm. The white-faced servants were huddlingtogether in the hall, with the frightened butler wringing his hands inthe doorway. Only Cecil Barker seemed to be master of himself and hisemotions; he had opened the door which was nearest to the entrance andhe had beckoned to the sergeant to follow him. At that moment therearrived Dr. Wood, a brisk and capable general practitioner from thevillage. The three men entered the fatal room together, while thehorror-stricken butler followed at their heels, closing the door behindhim to shut out the terrible scene from the maid servants.
The dead man lay on his back, sprawling with outstretched limbs in thecentre of the room. He was clad only in a pink dressing gown, whichcovered his night clothes. There were carpet slippers on his bare feet.The doctor knelt beside him and held down the hand lamp which had stoodon the table. One glance at the victim was enough to show the healerthat his presence could be dispensed with. The man had been horriblyinjured. Lying across his chest was a curious weapon, a shotgun withthe barrel sawed off a foot in front of the triggers. It was clear thatthis had been fired at close range and that he had received the wholecharge in the face, blowing his head almost to pieces. The triggers hadbeen wired together, so as to make the simultaneous discharge moredestructive.
The country policeman was unnerved and troubled by the tremendousresponsibility which had come so suddenly upon him. "We will touchnothing until my superiors arrive," he said in a hushed voice, staringin horror at the dreadful head.
"Nothing has been touched up to now," said Cecil Barker. "I'll answerfor that. You see it all exactly as I found it."
"When was that?" The sergeant had drawn out his notebook.
"It was just half-past eleven. I had not begun to undress, and I wassitting by the fire in my bedroom when I heard the report. It was notvery loud--it seemed to be muffled. I rushed down--I don't suppose itwas thirty seconds before I was in the room."
"Was the door open?"
"Yes, it was open. Poor Douglas was lying as you see him. His bedroomcandle was burning on the table. It was I who lit the lamp some minutesafterward."
"Did you see no one?"
"No. I heard Mrs. Douglas coming down the stair behind me, and I rushedout to prevent her from seeing this dreadful sight. Mrs. Allen, thehousekeeper, came and took her away. Ames had arrived, and we ran backinto the room once more."
"But surely I have heard that the drawbridge is kept up all night."
"Yes, it was up until I lowered it."
"Then how could any murderer have got away? It is out of the question!Mr. Douglas must have shot himself."
"That was our first idea. But see!" Barker drew aside the curtain, andshowed that the long, diamond-paned window was open to its full extent."And look at this!" He held the lamp down and illuminated a smudge ofblood like the mark of a boot-sole upon the wooden sill. "Someone hasstood there in getting out."
"You mean that someone waded across the moat?"
"Exactly!"
"Then if you were in the room within half a minute of the crime, hemust have been in the water at that very moment."
"I have not a doubt of it. I wish to heaven that I had rushed to thewindow! But the curtain screened it, as you can see, and so it neveroccurred to me. Then I heard the step of Mrs. Douglas, and I could notlet her enter the room. It would have been too horrible."
"Horrible enough!" said the doctor, looking at the shattered head andthe terrible marks which surrounded it. "I've never seen such injuriessince the Birlstone railway smash."
"But, I say," remarked the police sergeant, whose slow, bucolic commonsense was still pondering the open window. "It's all very well yoursaying that a man escaped by wading this moat, but what I ask you is,how did he ever get into the house at all if the bridge was up?"
"Ah, that's the question," said Barker.
"At what o'clock was it raised?"
"It was nearly six o'clock," said Ames, the butler.
"I've heard," said the sergeant, "that it was usually raised at sunset.That would be nearer half-past four than six at this time of year."
"Mrs. Douglas had visitors to tea," said Ames. "I couldn't raise ituntil they went. Then I wound it up myself."
"Then it comes to this," said the sergeant: "If anyone came fromoutside--if they did--they must have got in across the bridge beforesix and been in hiding ever since, until Mr. Douglas came into the roomafter eleven."
"That is so! Mr. Douglas went round the house every night the lastthing before he turned in to see that the lights were right. Thatbrought him in here. The man was waiting and shot him. Then he got awaythrough the window and left his gun behind him. That's how I read it;for nothing else will fit the facts."
The sergeant picked up a card which lay beside the dead man on thefloor. The initials V. V. and under them the number 341 were rudelyscrawled in ink upon it.
"What's this?" he asked, holding it up.
Barker looked at it with curiosity. "I never noticed it before," hesaid. "The murderer must have left it behind him."
"V. V.--341. I can make no sense of that."
The sergeant kept turning it over in his big fingers. "What's V. V.?Somebody's initials, maybe. What have you got there, Dr. Wood?"
It was a good-sized hammer which had been lying on the rug in front ofthe fireplace--a substantial, workmanlike hammer. Cecil Barker pointedto a box of brass-headed nails upon the mantelpiece.
"Mr. Douglas was altering the pictures yesterday," he said. "I saw himmyself, standing upon that chair and fixing the big picture above it.That accounts for the hammer."
"We'd best put it back on the rug where we found it," said thesergeant, scratching his puzzled head in his perplexity. "It will wantthe best brains in the force to get to the bottom of this thing. Itwill be a London job before it is finished." He raised the hand lampand walked slowly round the room. "Hullo!" he cried, excitedly, drawingthe window curtain to one side. "What o'clock were those curtainsdrawn?"
"When the lamps were lit," said the butler. "It would be shortly afterfour."
"Someone had been hiding here, sure enough." He held down the light,and the marks of muddy boots were very visible in the corner. "I'mbound to say this bears out your theory, Mr. Barker. It looks as if theman got into the house after four when the curtains were drawn andbefore six when the bridge was raised. He slipped into this room,because it was the first that he saw. There was no other place where hecould hide, so he popped in behind this curtain. That all seems clearenough. It is likely that his main idea was to burgle the house; butMr. Douglas chanced to come upon him, so he murdered him and escaped."
"That's how I read it," said Barker. "But, I say, aren't we wastingprecious time? Couldn't we start out and scour the country before thefellow gets away?"
The sergeant considered for a moment.
"There are no trains before six in the morning; so he can't get away byrail. If he goes by road with his legs all dripping, it's odds thatsomeone will notice him. Anyhow, I can't leave here myself until I amrelieved. But I think none of you should go until we see more clearlyhow we all stand."
The doctor had taken the lamp and was narrowly scrutinizing the body."What's this mark?" he asked. "Could this have any connection with thecrime?"
The dead man's right arm was thrust out from his dressing gown, andexposed as high as the elbow. About halfway up the forearm was acurious brown design, a triangle inside a circle, standing out in vividrelief upon the lard-coloured skin.
"It's not tattooed," said the doctor, peering through his glasses. "Inever saw anything like it. The man has been branded at some time asthey brand cattle. What is the meaning of this?"
"I don't profess to know the meaning of it," said Cecil Barker; "but Ihave seen the mark on
Douglas many times this last ten years."
"And so have I," said the butler. "Many a time when the master hasrolled up his sleeves I have noticed that very mark. I've oftenwondered what it could be."
"Then it has nothing to do with the crime, anyhow," said the sergeant."But it's a rum thing all the same. Everything about this case is rum.Well, what is it now?"
The butler had given an exclamation of astonishment and was pointing atthe dead man's outstretched hand.
"They've taken his wedding ring!" he gasped.
"What!"
"Yes, indeed. Master always wore his plain gold wedding ring on thelittle finger of his left hand. That ring with the rough nugget on itwas above it, and the twisted snake ring on the third finger. There'sthe nugget and there's the snake, but the wedding ring is gone."
"He's right," said Barker.
"Do you tell me," said the sergeant, "that the wedding ring was belowthe other?"
"Always!"
"Then the murderer, or whoever it was, first took off this ring youcall the nugget ring, then the wedding ring, and afterwards put thenugget ring back again."
"That is so!"
The worthy country policeman shook his head. "Seems to me the sooner weget London on to this case the better," said he. "White Mason is asmart man. No local job has ever been too much for White Mason. Itwon't be long now before he is here to help us. But I expect we'll haveto look to London before we are through. Anyhow, I'm not ashamed to saythat it is a deal too thick for the likes of me."
The Valley of Fear Page 3