“Come then,” Hewitt said, “you’re an expert. Would it have been possible for the shot to have been fired from behind?”
“Oh, no. See! the bullet entering makes a wound of quite a different character from that of the bullet leaving.”
“Have you any idea of the weapon used?”
“A large revolver, I should think; perhaps of the regulation size; that is, I should judge the bullet to have been a conical one of about the size fitted to such a weapon — smaller than that from a rifle.”
“Can you form an idea of from what distance the shot was fired?”
Dr. O’Reilly shook his head. “The clothes have all been burned,” he said, “and the wound has been washed, otherwise one might have looked for powder blackening.”
“Did you know either the dead man or Dr. Main personally?”
“Only very slightly. I may say I saw just such a pistol as might cause that sort of wound in his hands the day before he gave out that Rewse had been attacked by smallpox. I drove past the cottage as he stood in the doorway with it in his hand. He had the breach opened, and seemed to be either loading or unloading it — which it was I couldn’t say.”
“Very good, doctor, that may be important. Now is there any single circumstance, incident or conjecture that you can tell me of in regard to this case that you have not already mentioned?”
Doctor O’Reilly thought for a moment, and replied in the negative.
“I heard of course,” he said, “of the reported new case of small-pox, and that Main had taken the case in hand himself. I was indeed relieved to hear it, for I had already more on my hands than one man can safely be expected to attend to. The cottage was fairly isolated, and there could have been nothing gained by removal to an asylum — indeed there was practically no accommodation. So far as I can make out nobody seems to have seen young Rewse, alive or dead, after Main had announced that he had the small-pox. He seems to have done everything himself, laying out the body and all, and you may be pretty sure that none of the strangers about was particularly anxious to have anything to do with it. The undertaker (there is only one here, and he is down with the small-pox himself now) was as much overworked as I was myself, and was glad enough to send off a coffin by a market cart and leave the laying out and screwing down to Main, since he had got those orders. Main made out the death certificate himself, and, since he was trebly qualified, everything seemed in order.”
“The certificate merely attributed the death to small-pox, I take it, with no qualifying remarks?”
“Small-pox simply.”
Hewitt and Mr. Bowyer bade Dr. O’Reilly good morning, and their car was turned in the direction of the cottage where Algernon Rewse had met his death. At the Town Hall in the market place, however, Hewitt stopped the car and set his watch by the public clock. “This is more than half an hour before London time,” he said, “and we mustn’t be at odds with the natives about the time.”
As he spoke Dr. O’Reilly came running up breathlessly. “I’ve just heard something,” he said. “Three men heard a shot in the cottage as they were passing, last Tuesday week.”
“Where are the men?”
“I don’t know at the moment; but they can be found. Shall I set about it?”
“If you possibly can,” Hewitt said, “you will help us enormously. Can you send them messages to be at the cottage as soon as they can get there to-day? Tell them they shall have half-a-sovereign apiece.”
“Right, I will. Good-day.”
“Tuesday week,” said Mr. Bowyer as they drove off; “that was the date of Main’s first letter, and the day on which, by his account, Rewse was taken ill. Then if that was the shot that killed Rewse he must have been lying dead in the place while Main was writing those letters reporting his sickness to his mother. The cold-blooded scoundrel!”
“Yes,” Hewitt replied, “I think it probable in any case that Tuesday was the day that Rewse was shot. It wouldn’t have been safe for Main to write the mother lying letters about the small-pox before. Rewse might have written home in the meantime, or something might have occurred to postpone Main’s plans, and then there would be impossible explanations required.”
Over a very bad road they jolted on and in the end arrived where the road, now become a mere path, passed a tumble-down old farmhouse.
“This is where the woman lives who cooked and cleaned house for Rewse and Main,” Mr. Bowyer said. “There is the cottage, scarce a hundred yards off, a little to the right of the track.”
“Well,” replied Hewitt, “suppose we stop here and ask her a few questions? I like to get the evidence of all the witnesses as soon as possible. It simplifies subsequent work wonderfully.”
They alighted, and Mr. Bowyer roared through the open door and tapped with his stick. In reply to his summons a decent-looking woman of perhaps fifty, but wrinkled beyond her age, and better dressed than any woman Hewitt had seen since leaving Cullanin, appeared from the hinder buildings and curtsied pleasantly.
“Good morning, Mrs. Hurley, good morning,” Mr. Bowyer said, “this is Mr. Martin Hewitt, a gentleman from London, who is going to look into this shocking murder of our young friend Mr. Rewse and sift it to the bottom. He would like you to tell him something, Mrs. Hurley.”
The woman curtsied again. “An’ it’s the jintleman is welcome, sor, sad doin’s as ut is.” She had a low, pleasing voice, much in contrast with her unattractive appearance, and characterised by the softest and broadest brogue imaginable. “Will ye not come in? Mother av Hiven! An’ thim two livin’ together, an’ fishin’ an’ readin’ an’ all, like brothers! An’ trut’ ut is he was a foine young jintleman indade, indade!”
“I suppose, Mrs. Hurley,” Hewitt said, “you’ve seen as much of the life of those two gentlemen here as anybody?”
“True ut is, sor; none more — nor as much.”
“Did you ever hear of anybody being on bad terms with Mr. Rewse — anybody at all, Mr. Main or another?”
“Niver a soul in all Mayo. How could ye? Such a foine young jintleman, an’ fair-spoken an’ all.”
“Tell me all that happened on the day that you heard that Mr. Rewse was ill — Tuesday week.”
“In the mornin’, sor, ’twas much as ord’nary. I was over there at half afther sivin, an’ ’twas half an hour afther that I cud hear the jintleman dhressin’. They tuk their breakfast — though Mr. Rewse’s was a small wan. It was half afther nine that Mr. Main wint off walkin’ to Cullanin, Mr. Rewse stayin’ in, havin’ letthers to write. Half an hour later I came away mesilf. Later than that (it was nigh elivin) I wint across for a pail from the yard, an’ then, through the windy as I passed I saw the dear young jintleman sittin’ writin’ at the table calm an’ peaceful — an’ saw him no more in this warrl’.”
“And after that?”
“Afther that, sor, I came back wid the pail, an’ saw nor heard no more till two o’clock, whin Mr. Main came back from Cullanin.”
“Did you see him as he came back?”
“That I did, sor, as I stud there nailin’ the fence where the pig bruk ut. I’d been there an’ had me of down the road lookin’ for him an hour past, expectin’ he might be bringin’ somethin’ for me to cook for their dinner. An’ more by token he gave me the toime from his watch, set by the Town Hall clock.”
“And was it two o’clock?”
“It was that to the sthroke, an’ me own ould clock was right too whin I wint to set ut. An’—”
“One moment; may I see your clock?”
Mrs. Hurley turned and shut an open door which had concealed an old hanging clock. Hewitt produced his watch and compared the time. “Still right I see, Mrs. Hurley,” he said; “your clock, keeps excellent time.”
“It does that, sor, an’ nivir more than claned twice by Rafferty since me own father (rest his soul!) lift ut here. ’Tis no bad clock, as Mr. Rewse himsilf said oft an’ again; an’ I always kape ut by the Town Hall toime. But as I was sayin’, Mr. Main came back
an’ gave me the toime; thin he wint sthraight to his house, an’ no more av him I saw till may be half afther three.”
“And then?”
“An’ thin, sor, he came across in a sad Lakin’, wid a letther. ‘Take ut,’ sez he, ‘an’ have ut posted at Cullanin by the first that can get there. Mr. Rewse has the sickness on him awful bad,’ he sez, ‘an’ ye must not be near the place or ye’ll take ut. I have him to bed, an’ his clothes I shall burn behin’ the cottage,’ sez he, ‘so if ye see smoke ye’ll know what ut is. There’ll be no docthor wanted. I’m wan mesilf, an’ I’ll do all for ‘um. An’ sure I knew him for a docthor ivir since he come. ‘The cottage ye shall not come near,’ he sez, ‘till ut’s over one way or another, an’ yez can lave whativir av food an’ dhrink we want mid-betwixt the houses an’ go back, an’ I’ll come and fetch ut. But have the letther posted,’ he sez, ‘at wanst. ’Tis not contagious,’ he sez, ‘bein’ as I’ve dishinfected it mesilf. But kape yez away from the cottage.’ An’ I kept.”
“And then did he go back to the cottage at once?”
“He did that, sor, an’ a sore stew was he in to all seemin’ — white as paper, and much need, too, the murtherin’ Scutt! An’ him always so much the jintleman an’ all. Well I saw no more av him that day. Next day he laves another letther wid the dirtily’ plates there mid-betwixt the houses, an’ shouts for ut to be posted. ’Twas for the poor young jintleman’s mother, sure, as was the other wan. An’ the day afther there was another letther, an’ wan for the undhertaker, too, for he tells me it’s all over, an’ he’s dead. An’ they buried him next day followin’.”
“So that from the time you went for the pail and saw Mr. Rewse writing, till after the funeral, you were never at the cottage at all?”
“Nivir, sor; an’ can ye blame me? Wid children an’ Terence himself sick wid bronchitis in this house?”
“Of course, of course, you did quite right — indeed you only obeyed orders. But now think; do you remember on any one of those three days hearing a shot, or any other unusual noise in the cottage?”
“Nivir at all, sor. ’Tis that I’ve been thryin’ to bring to mind these four days. Such may have been, but not that I heard.”
“After you went for the pail, and before Mr. Main returned to the house, did Mr. Rowse leave the cottage at all, or might he have done so?”
“He did not lave at all, to my knowledge. Sure he might have gone an’ he might have come back widout my knowin’. But see him I did not.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hurley. I think we’ll go across to the cottage now. If any people come will you send them after us? I suppose a policeman is there?”
“He is, sor. An’ the serjint is not far away. They’ve been in chyarge since Mr. Bowyer wint away last — but shlapin’ here.”
Hewitt and Mr. Bowyer walked towards the cottage. “Did you notice,” said Mr. Bowyer, “that the woman saw Rewse writing letters? Now what were those letters, and where are they? He has no correspondents that I know of but his mother and sister, and they heard nothing from him. Is this something else? — some other plot? There is something very deep here.”
“Yes,” Hewitt replied thoughtfully, “I think our inquiries may take us deeper than we have ‘expected; and in the matter of those letters — yes, I think they may he near the kernel of the mystery.”
Here they arrived at the cottage — an uncommonly substantial structure for the district. It was square, of plain, solid brick, with a slated roof. On the patch of ground behind it there were still signs of the fires wherein Main had burnt Rewse’s clothes and other belongings. And sitting on the window-sill in front was a big member of the R.I.C., soldierly and broad, who rose as they came and saluted Mr. Bowyer.
“Good-day, constable,” Mr. Bowyer said. “I hope nothing has been disturbed?”
“Not a shtick, sor. Nobody’s as much as gone in.”
“Have any of the windows been opened or shut?” Hewitt asked.
“This wan was, sor,” the policeman said, indicating the one behind him, “when they took away the corrpse, an’ so was the next round the corrner. ’Tis the bedroom windier they are, an’ they opened thim to give ut a bit av air. The other windy behin’ — sittin’-room windy — has not been opened.”
“Very well,” Hewitt answered, “we’ll take a look at that unopened window from the inside.”
The door was opened and they passed inside. There was a small lobby, and on the left of this was the bedroom with two single beds. The only other room of consequence was the sitting-room, the cottage consisting merely of these, a small scullery and a narrow closet used as a bath-room, wedged between the bedroom and the sitting-room. They made for the single window of the sitting-room at the back. It was an ordinary sash window, and was shut, but the catch was not fastened. Hewitt examined the catch, drawing Mr. Bowyer’s attention to a bright scratch on the grimy brass. “See,” he said, “that nick in the catch exactly corresponds with the narrow space between the two frames of the window. And look” — he lifted the bottom sash a little as he spoke— “there is the mark of a knife on the frame of the top sash. Somebody has come in by that window, forcing the catch with a knife.”
“Yes, yes!” cried Mr. Bowyer, greatly excited, “and he has gone out that way too, else why is the window shut and the catch not fastened? Why should he do that? What in the world does this thing mean?”
Before Hewitt could reply the constable put his head into the room and announced that one Larry Shanahan was at the door, and had been promised half-a-sovereign.
“One of the men who heard a shot,” Hewitt said to Mr. Bowyer. “Bring him in, constable.”
The constable brought in Larry Shanahan, and Larry Shanahan brought in a strong smell of whisky. He was an extremely ragged person, with only one eye, which caused him to hold his head aside as he regarded Hewitt, much as a parrot does. On his face sun-scorched brown and fiery red struggled for mastery, and his voice was none of the clearest. He held his hat against his stomach with one hand and with the other pulled his forelock.
“An’ which is the honourable jintleman,” he said, “as do be burrnin’ to prisint me wid a bit o’ goold?”
“Here I am,” said Hewitt, jingling money in his pocket, “and here is the half-sovereign. It’s only waiting where it is till you have answered a few questions. They say you heard a shot fired hereabout?
“Faith, an’ that I did, sor. ’Twas a shot in this house, indade, no other.”
“And when was it?”
“Sure, ’twas in the afthernoon.”
“But on what day?”
“Last Tuesday sivin-noight, sor, as I know by rayson av Ballyshiel fair that I wint to.”
“Tell me all about it.”
“I will, sor. ’Twas pigs I was dhrivin’ that day, sor, to Ballyshiel fair from just beyond Cullanin, sor, I dhropped in wid Danny Mulcahy, that intentioned thravellin’ the same way, an’ while we tuk a thrifle av a dhrink in comes Dennis Grady, that was to go to Ballyshiel similarously. An’ so we had another thrifle av a dhrink, or maybe a thrifle more, an’ we wint togedther, passin’ this way, sor, as ye may not know, bein’ likely a shtranger. Well, sor, ut was as we were just forninst this place that there came a divil av a bang that makes us shtop simultaneous. ‘What’s that?’ sez Dan. ’Tis a gunshot,’ sez I, an’ ’tis in the brick house too.’ ‘That is so,’ sez Dennis; ‘nowhere else.’ And we lukt at wan another. ‘An’ what’ll we do?’ sez I. ‘What would yez?’ sez Dan; ’Tis none av our business.’ ‘That is so,’ sez Dennis again, and we wint on. Ut was quare, maybe, but it might aisily be wan av the jiritlemen emptyin’ a barr’l out o’ windy or what not. An’ — an’ so — an’ so Mr. Shanahan scratched his ear, an’ so — we wint.”
“And do you know at what time this was?”
Larry Shanahan ceased scratching, and seized his ear between thumb and forefinger, gazing severely at the floor with his one eye as he did so, plunged in computation. “Sure,” he said, “’t
would be— ’twould be — let’s see— ’twould be—” he looked up, “’twould be half-past two maybe, or maybe a thrifle nearer three.”
“And Main was in the place all the time after two,” Mr. Bowyer said, bringing down his fist on his open hand. “That finishes it. We’ve nailed him to the minute.”
“Had you a watch with you?” asked Hewitt.
“Divil of a watch in the company, sor. I made an internal calculation. ’Tis foive mile from Cullanin, and we never lift till near half an hour after the Town Hall clock had struck twelve. ’Twould take us two hours and a thrifle more, considherin’ the pigs, an’ the rough road, an’ the distance, an’ an’ the thrifle of dhrink.” His eye rolled slyly as he said it. “That was my calculation, sor.”
Here the constable appeared with two more men. Each had the usual number of eyes, but in other respects they were very good copies of Mr. Shanahan. They were both ragged, and neither bore any violent likeness to a teetotaler. “Dan Mulcahy and Dennis Grady,” announced the constable.
Mr. Dan Mulcahy’s tale was of a piece with Mr. Larry Shanahan’s, and Mr. Dennis Grady’s was the same. They had all heard the shot it was plain. What Dan had said to Dennis and what Dennis had said to Larry mattered little. Also they were all agreed that the day was Tuesday by token of the fair. But as to the time of day there arose a disagreement.
“’Twas nigh soon afther wan o’clock,” said Dan Mulcahy.
“Soon afther wan!” exclaimed Larry Shanahan with scorn. “Soon afther your grandmother’s pig! ’Twas half afther two at laste. Ut sthruck twelve nigh half an hour before we lift Cullanin. Why, yez heard ut!”
“That I did not. Ut sthruck eleven, an’ we wint in foive minutes.”
“What fool-talk ye shpake Dan Mulcahy. ’Twas twelve sthruck; I counted ut.”
“Thin ye counted wrong. I counted ut, an’ ’twas elivin.”
“Yez nayther av yez right,” interposed Dennis Grady. “’Twas not elivin when we lift; ’twas not, be the mother av Moses!”
Delphi Complete Works of Arthur Morrison Page 50