Delphi Complete Works of Arthur Morrison

by Arthur Morrison

  The matter began, as so many matters of Hewitt’s did, with the receipt of a telegram, followed immediately by another. For the first having been handed in at a country office not very long before eight the previous evening, it was not delivered at Hewitt’s office till the morning, in accordance with the ancient manners and customs observed in the telegraphic system of this country. It had been despatched from Throckham, in Middlesex, and it was simply a very urgently worded request to Hewitt to come at once, signed “Claire Peytral.” The second telegram, which came even as Hewitt was reading the first, on his arrival at his office, ran thus: —

  “Did you receive telegram? See newspapers. Matter life or death. Would come personally but cannot leave mother. Pray answer. — Peytral.”

  The answer went instantly that Hewitt would come by the next train, for he had seen the morning paper and from that knew the urgency of the case. But a consultation of the railway guide showed that trains to Throckham were fewer than one might suppose, considering the proximity of the village to London, and that the next would leave in about an hour and a quarter; so that I saw Hewitt before he started. He came up to my rooms, in fact, as I was beginning to breakfast.

  “See here,” he said, “I am sent for in the Throckham case. Have you seen the report?”

  As a leader writer, I had little business with the news side of my paper, and indeed I had no more than a vague recollection of some such heading as: “Tragedy in a barn,” in one evening paper of the day before, and “Murder at Throckham” in another. So I could claim no very exact knowledge of the affair.

  “Here you have a paper, I see,” Hewitt said, reaching for it. “Perhaps their report is fuller than that in mine.” He gave me his own newspaper and began searching in the other. “No,” he said presently, “much the same. News agency report to both papers, no doubt.”

  The report which I read ran as follows: —

  “Singular Tragedy. — An extraordinary occurrence is reported from Throckham, a small village within fifteen miles of London, involving a tragic fatality that has led to a charge of murder. On Thursday evening an old barn, for some time disused, was discovered to be on fire, and it was only by extraordinary exertions on the part of the villagers that the fire was extinguished. Upon an examination of the place yesterday morning the body of Mr. Victor Peytral, a gentleman who had lived in the neighbourhood for some time, and who had been missing since shortly before the discovery of the fire, was found in the ruins. The body was burnt almost beyond recognition, but not so much as to conceal the fact that the unfortunate gentleman had not perished in the fire, but had been the victim of foul play. The throat was very deeply cut, and there can be no doubt that the murderer must have fired the barn with the object of destroying all traces of the crime. The police have arrested Mr. Percy Bowmore, a frequent visitor at the house of the deceased.”

  “My telegram,” said Hewitt, “is plainly from a relative of this Mr. Peytral who is dead — perhaps a daughter, since she speaks of being unable to leave her mother. In that case, probably an only child, since there is no other to leave.”

  “Unless the others are too young,” I suggested.

  “Just so,” Hewitt replied. “Well, Brett,” he added, “to-day is Saturday.”

  Saturday was, of course, my “off” day, and I understood Hewitt to hint that if I pleased I might accompany him to Throckham. “Saturday it is,” I said, “and I have no engagements. Would you care for me to come?”

  “As you please, of course. I can guess very little of the case as yet, naturally, beyond what I have read in the paper; but the subtle sense of my experience tells me that there is all the chance of an interesting case in this. That’s your temptation. As for myself, I don’t mind admitting that — especially in these country cases, where the resources of civilisation are not always close at hand — I’m never loth to have a friend with me who isn’t too proud to be made use of. That’s my temptation!”

  No persuasion was needed, and in due time we set out together.

  II

  It is my experience that places are to be found within twenty miles of London far more rural, far sleepier, far less influenced by the great city that lies so near, than places thrice and four times as far away. They are just too far out to be disturbed by suburban traffic, and too near to feel the influence of the great railway lines. These main lines go by, carrying their goods and their passengers to places far beyond, and it is only by awkward little branch lines, with slow and rare trains, that any part of this mid-lying belt is reached, and even then it is odds but that one must drive a good way to his destination.

  Throckham was just such a place as I speak of, and that was the reason why we had such ample time to catch the first of the half-dozen leisurely trains by which one might reach the neighbourhood during the day. The station was Redfield, and Throckham was three miles beyond it.

  At Redfield a coachman with a dogcart awaited Hewitt — only one gentleman having been expected, as the man explained, in offering to give either of us the reins. But Hewitt wished to talk to the coachman, and I willingly took the back seat, understanding very well that my friend would get better to work if he first had as many of the facts as possible from a calm informant before discussing them with the dead man’s relations, probably confused and distracted with their natural emotions.

  The coachman was a civil and intelligent fellow, and he gave Hewitt all he knew of the case with perfect clearness, as I could very well hear.

  “It isn’t much I can tell you, sir,” he said, “beyond what I expect you know. I suppose you didn’t know Mr. Peytral, my master, that’s dead?”

  “No. But he was a foreigner, I suppose — French, from the name.”

  “Well, no, sir,” the coachman replied, thoughtfully; “not French exactly, I think, though sometimes he talked French to the mistress. They came from somewhere in the West Indies, I believe, and there’s a trifle of — well, of dark blood in ‘em, sir, I should think; though, of course, it ain’t for me to say.”

  “Yes — there are many such families in the French West Indies. Did you ever hear of Alexandre Dumas?”

  “No, sir, can’t say I did.”

  “Well, he was a very great Frenchman indeed, but he had as much ‘dark blood’ as your master had — probably more; and it came from the West Indies, too. But go on.”

  “Mr. Peytral, you must understand, sir, has lived here a year or two — I’ve only been with him nine months. He talked English always — as good as you or me; and he was always called Mr. Peytral — not Monsieur, or Signor, or any o’ them foreign titles. I think he was naturalised. Mrs. Peytral, she’s an invalid — came here an invalid, I’m told. She never comes out of her bedroom ‘cept on an invalid couch, which is carried. Miss Claire, she’s the daughter, an’ the only one, and she was hoping you’d ha’ been down last night, sir, by the last train. She’s in an awful state, as you may expect, sir.”

  “Naturally, to lose her father in such a terrible way.”

  “Yes, sir, but it’s wuss than that even, for her. You see, this Mr. Bowmore, that they’ve took up, he’s been sort of keepin’ company with Miss Claire for some time, an’ there’s no doubt she was very fond of him. That makes it pretty bad for her, takin’ it both ways, you see.”

  “Of course — terrible. But tell me how the thing happened, and why they took this Mr. Bowmore.”

  “Well, sir, it ain’t exactly for me to say, and, of course, I don’t know the rights of it, bein’ only a servant, but they say there was a sudden quarrel last night between Mr. Peytral and Mr. Bowmore. I think myself that Mr. Peytral was getting a bit excitable lately, whatever it was. On Thursday night, just after dinner, he went strolling off in the dusk, alone, and presently Mr. Bowmore — he came down in the afternoon — went strolling off after him. It seems they went down toward the Penn’s Meadow barn, Mr. Peytral first, and Mr. Bowmore catching him up from behind. A man saw them — a gamekeeper. He was lyin’ quiet in a little wood jus
t the other side of Penn’s Meadow, an’ they didn’t see him as they came along together. They were quarrelling, it seems, though Grant — that’s the gamekeeper — couldn’t hear exactly what about; but he heard Mr. Peytral tell Mr. Bowmore to go away. He ‘preferred to be alone’ and he’d ‘had enough’ of Mr. Bowmore, from what Grant could make out. ‘Get out o’ my sight, sir, I tell you!’ the old gentleman said at last, stamping his foot, and shaking his fist in the young gentleman’s face. And then Bowmore turned and walked away.”

  “One moment,” Hewitt interposed. “You are telling me what Grant saw and heard. How did it come to your knowledge?”

  “Told me hisself, sir — told me every word yesterday. Told me twice, in fact. First thing in the morning when they found the body, and then again after he’d been to Redfield and had it took down by the police. It was because of that they arrested Mr. Bowmore, of course.”

  “Just so. And is this gamekeeper Grant in the same employ as yourself?”

  “Oh, no, sir! Mr. Peytral’s is only just an acre or two of garden and a paddock. Grant’s master is Colonel White, up at the Hall.”

  “Very good. You were saying that Mr. Peytral told Mr. Bowmore to get out of his sight, and that Mr. Bowmore walked away. What then?”

  “Well, Grant saw Mr. Bowmore walk away, but it was only a feint — a dodge, you see, sir. He walked away to the corner of the little wood where Grant was, and then he took a turn into the wood and began following Mr. Peytral up, watching him from among the trees. Came close by where Grant was sitting, following up Mr. Peytral and watching him; and so Grant lost sight of ‘em.”

  “Did Grant say what he was doing in the wood?”

  “He said he’d found marks of rabbit-snares there, and he was watching to see if anybody came to set any more.”

  “Yes — quite an ordinary part of his duty, of course. What next?”

  “Well, Grant didn’t see any more. He waited a bit, and then moved off to another part of the wood, and he didn’t notice anything else particular till the barn was on fire. It was dark, then, of course.”

  “Yes — you must tell me about the fire. Who discovered it?”

  “Oh, a man going home along the lane. He ran and called some people, and they fetched the fire-engine from the village and pumped out of the horse-pond just close by. It was pretty much of a wreck by the time they got the fire out, but it wasn’t all gone, as you might have expected. You see, it had been out of use for some time, sir, and there was mostly nothing but old broken ploughs and lumber there; and what’s more, there was a deal of rain early in the week, as you may remember, sir, so the thatch was pretty sodden, being out o’ repair and all — and so was the timber, for the matter o’ that, for there’s no telling when it was last painted. So the fire didn’t go quite so fierce as it might, you see; else I should expect it had been all over before they got to work on it.”

  “Not at all a likely sort of place to catch fire, it would seem, either,” Hewitt commented. “Old ploughs and such lumber are not very combustible.”

  “Quite so, sir; that’s what makes ‘em think it so odd, I suppose. But there was a bundle or two of old pea-straw there, shied in last summer, they say, being over bundles from the last load, and there left.”

  “And when was Mr. Bowmore seen next?”

  “He came strolling back, sir, and told the young lady he’d left her father outside, or something of that sort, I think; said nothing of the quarrel, I believe. But he said the barn was on fire — which he must have known pretty early, sir, for ’tis a mile from the house off that way;” and the coachman pointed with his whip.

  “Nothing was suspected of the murder, it seems, till yesterday morning?”

  “No, sir. Miss Claire got frightful worried when her father didn’t come home, as you would expect, and specially at him not coming home all night. But when the fire was quite put out, o’ course the people went away home to bed, and it wasn’t till the morning that anybody went in to turn the place over. Then they found the body.”

  “Badly burnt, I believe?”

  “Horrid burnt, sir. If it wasn’t for Mr. Peytral’s being missing, I doubt if they’d have known it was him at all. It took a doctor’s examination to see clear that the throat had been cut. But cut it had been, and deep, so the doctor said. And now the body’s gone over to Redfield mortuary.”

  Hewitt asked a few questions more, and got equally direct answers, except where the coachman had to confess ignorance. But presently we were at the house to which Hewitt had been summoned.

  It was a pleasant house enough, standing alone, apart from the village, a little way back from a loop of road that skirted a patch of open green. As we came in at the front gate, I caught an instant’s glimpse of a pale face at an upper window, and before we could reach the drawing-room door Miss Claire Peytral had met us.

  She was a young lady of singular beauty, which the plain signs of violent grief and anxiety very little obscured. Her complexion, of a very delicate ivory tinge, was scarcely marred by the traces of sleeplessness and tears that were nevertheless clear to see. Her eyes were large and black, and her jetty hair had a slight waviness that was the only distinct sign about her of the remote blend of blood from an inferior race.

  “Oh, Mr. Hewitt,” she cried, “I am so glad you have come at last! I have been waiting — waiting so long! And my poor mother is beginning to suspect!”

  “You have not told her, then?”

  “No, it will kill her when she knows, I’m sure — kill her on the spot. I have only said that father is ill at — at Redfield. Oh, what shall I do?”

  The poor girl seemed on the point of breakdown, and Hewitt spoke sharply and distinctly.

  “What you must do is this,” he said. “You must attend to me, and tell me all I want to know as accurately and as tersely as you can. In that case I will do whatever I can, but if you give way you will cripple me. It all depends on you, remember. This is my intimate friend, Mr. Brett, who is good enough to offer to help us. Now, first, I think I know the heads of the case, from the newspapers, and, more especially, from your coachman. But when you sent for me, no doubt you had some definite idea or intention in your mind. What was it?”

  “Oh, he is innocent, Mr. Hewitt — he is, really! The only friend I have in the world — the only friend we all have!”

  “Steady — steady,” Hewitt said, pressing her kindly and firmly into a seat. “You must keep steady, you know, if I am to do anything. I expected that would be your belief. Now tell me why you are so sure.”

  “Mr. Hewitt, if you knew him you wouldn’t ask. He would never injure my poor father — he went out after him purely out of kindness, because I was uneasy. He would never hurt him, Mr. Hewitt, never, never! I can’t say it strongly enough — he never would! Oh! my poor father, and now — —”

  “Steady again!” cried Hewitt, more sharply still. I could see that he feared the hysterical breakdown that might come at any moment after the lengthened suspense Miss Peytral had suffered. “Listen, now — you mustn’t frighten yourself too much. If Mr. Bowmore is innocent — and you say you are so certain of it — then I’ve no doubt of finding a way to prove it if only you’ll make your best effort to help me, and keep your wits about you. As far as I can see at present there’s nothing against him that we need be afraid of if we tackle it properly, and, of course, the police make arrests of this sort by way of precaution in a case like this, on the merest hint. Come now, you say you were uneasy when your father went out after dinner on Thursday night. Why?”

  “I don’t know, quite, Mr. Hewitt. It was my mother that was uneasy, really, about something she never explained to me. My father had taken to going out in the evening after dinner, just in the way he did on Thursday night. I don’t know why, but I think it had something to do with my mother’s anxiety.”

  “Did he dress for dinner?”

  “No, not lately. He used to dress always, but he has dropped it of late.”

  Hewitt
paused for a moment, thoughtfully. Then he said, “Mrs. Peytral is an invalid, I know, and no doubt none the better for her anxiety. But if it could be managed I should like to ask her a few questions. What do you think?”

  But this Miss Peytral was altogether against. Her mother was suffering from spinal complaint, it appeared, with very serious nervous complications, and there was no answering for the result of the smallest excitement. She never saw strangers, and, if it could possibly be avoided, it must be avoided now.

  “Very well, Miss Peytral, I will first go and look at some things I must see, and I will do without your mother’s help as long as I possibly can. But now you must answer a few more questions yourself, please.”

  Hewitt’s questions produced little more substantial information, it seemed to me, than he had already received. Mr. Peytral had taken the house in which we were sitting — it was called “The Lodge” simply — two years ago. Before that the family had lived in Surrey, but they had not moved direct from there; there was a journey to America between, on some business of Mr. Peytral’s, and it was on the return voyage that they had met Mr. Percy Bowmore. Mr. Bowmore had no friends nearer than Canada, and he was reading for the Bar — in a very desultory way, as I gathered. Miss Peytral’s childhood had been passed in the West Indies, at the town of San Domingo, in fact, where her father had been a merchant. Her mother had been a helpless invalid ever since Miss Peytral could remember. As to the engagement with Bowmore, it would seem to have had the full approval of both parents all along. But a rather curious change had come over her father, she thought, a few months ago. What it was that had caused it she could not say, but he grew nervous and moody, often absent-minded, and sometimes even short-tempered and snappish, a thing she had never known before. Also he read the daily papers with much care and eagerness. It was plain that Miss Peytral had no idea of any cause which might have led to a quarrel between Bowmore and her father, and Hewitt’s most cunning questions failed to elicit the smallest suggestion of reason for such an occurrence.