Afternoon Tea Mysteries, Volume Two: A Collection of Cozy Mysteries (Four thrilling novels in one volume!)

by Marion Bryce

  “No,” admitted Mark regretfully. “He doesn’t. He sticks to it that he’d never been near the flower-bed, with boots, or without them; it’s my belief his memory has been affected by the shock of all this. And he would insist on talking to the police, though they warned him that what he said might be used against him. I did all I could to stop him, but it was no good. It really looked as if he was doing his best to incriminate himself.”

  “How was that? What else did he say?”

  “You see,” said Mark, “when the Crianan man had got hold of the boots that matched the footprints, he was no end excited by his success. Pleased to death with himself, he was. And he was as keen as mustard on following up his rotten clue. The next thing he did was to want a look at David’s guns. Of course we didn’t make any objection to that, though if I’d known—well, it’s no earthly thinking of that now. So off we all marched in procession to the gun-room, and it didn’t take long to see that the only one of the whole lot there that hadn’t been cleaned since it was last fired was the Mannlicher David had shot his stag with the day before. The silly ass of a constable took it up and squinted through it as solemn as a judge, and then he just handed it to my cousin, and ‘What have you to say to this, Sir David?’ says he. Infernal cheek! ‘I shot it off yesterday, and haven’t had time to clean it since,’ said David, and I, for one, could have sworn he was speaking the truth. Why not, indeed? There was nothing improbable about it. But the dickens of the thing was that while we were all out of the house, and he had the place to himself, the policeman had routed out poor Miss Byrne and badgered her for an account of all that had happened the evening before; and she, without a thought of doing harm to any of us—I’m convinced she’s as sorry for it now as I am myself—had mentioned incidentally that David had told her, when she saw him half an hour before the murder, that he’d just been cleaning his rifle. She’d told me so, too, as far as that goes, when she passed through the billiard-room on her way to the library. I happened to ask her if she knew what he was up to.”

  “Decidedly awkward for Sir David,” said Gimblet meditatively, “but after all, some one else might have fired off the rifle after he had cleaned it.”

  Mark shook his head gloomily.

  “There are difficulties about that,” he said. “It happens that David is very fussy about his guns, always cleans them himself, you know, and won’t let another soul touch ’em. And though he keeps them in the gunroom like the rest of us, he’s got his own particular glass-fronted cupboard which he keeps the key of himself. My uncle and I share one between us, and generally leave the key in the lock, so that the keeper can get at the guns, which we never bother to clean ourselves. Not so David. Ever since we were boys he’s had his own private cupboard, and no one but himself has ever been allowed to open it. We always spent our holidays here, and my uncle let us behave as if we were at our own house. David took out the key for the sergeant to use, and when he was asked if anyone else could have got at the rifle, he replied that it was impossible, as the key had been in his pocket the whole time, except for an hour or two while he was asleep, when it had lain on the table by his bedside.”

  “Did he deny having told Miss Byrne he had cleaned the rifle?” asked Gimblet.

  “Yes; he said he hadn’t told her so. It was all very unpleasant, and the police sergeant was as suspicious as you like, by this time. ‘What were you doing when the alarm was given?’ he asked David. ‘I was out in the grounds,’ said David, and that was rather a facer for the rest of us, I must confess. He went on to say that he had fancied he saw some one hanging about at the edge of the lawn—which is the opposite side of the house from the library—and gone out to make sure, but he had found no one, though he hunted about for nearly an hour, till he saw lights approaching and fell in with our party of searchers. He said that it was then he first heard what had happened.”

  Gimblet nodded his head thoughtfully.

  “Miss Byrne said she saw him start off to look for some one,” he remarked.

  “Yes,” said Mark eagerly, “there’s no doubt he saw a man lurking in the darkness. And it was dark too,” he added, “never saw such a black night in my life; I must say it beats me how he could have seen anyone. But his eyes were always rather more useful than mine,” he concluded hastily.

  “The police, however, seem to have thought it improbable,” said Gimblet, “since they arrested your cousin for the murder.”

  “Stupid brutes!” said Mark viciously. “No, they would have it it was impossible he should have seen anyone. And what clinched it was the unlucky fact that David and my uncle had had a violent row the day before. My uncle shot David’s dog; I must say I think it was uncalled for, and poor David was absurdly fond of the beast. He felt very savage about it, and all the ghillies heard what he said to Uncle Douglas.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Oh, a lot of rot. He lost his temper. The idiotic thing he said was, that he’d a good mind to shoot him and see how he liked it. Pure temper, you know. I don’t believe David would hurt a hair of his head.”

  “Well, it was decidedly an indiscreet remark.”

  “It was imbecile. And of course the police heard all about it from the servants and keepers, and it fitted in only too well with all the rest about the footmarks and his absence from the house at the time, and the rifle and everything. By the by, the bullet was a soft-nosed one which fitted David’s rifle; but for that matter it fitted mine—which is a.355 Mannlicher like his—or a dozen others on the loch side. It’s a very common weapon on a Scotch forest. But taking one thing with another there was a good deal of evidence against him, so they made up their minds he had done it; and Macross, when he arrived from Glasgow with his myrmidons, agreed with the local idiots, and took him off. I’m certain there must be a mistake somewhere, but so far it seems jolly hard to hit on it. I hope you’ll put your finger on the spot.”

  “I hope so,” said Gimblet, but his voice was full of doubt. “It’s hard to see how anyone else could have used his rifle after he cleaned it, since he admits that he locked it up and kept the key on him. Yes,” he murmured to himself, “the rifle speaks very eloquently. What other interpretation can be put on these facts? I’m sure you must see that yourself,” he went on, glancing up at Mark, who was feeling in his pocket for another cigarette. “Sir David told Miss Byrne he had cleaned his rifle; he told the police he then locked it up and that the key had been in his possession ever since. But the rifle was found to have been fired again since he had cleaned it. His only explanation was to contradict what he had previously said to Miss Byrne. Do those facts appear to you to leave any possible loophole of doubt as to his guilt?”

  Mark struck a match and lighted his cigarette before he answered. When at length he did so his reluctance was very plain, and his voice full of regret.

  “Poor old chap,” he said. “I’m afraid he must have done it in some fit of madness. As you say, there is no other imaginable alternative.”

  Gimblet nodded philosophically.

  “Is there anything else?” he asked.

  Mark hesitated.

  “There’s a letter which arrived for Uncle Douglas this morning,” he said, “which you may think worth looking at. I daresay it’s of no importance, but it struck me as rather odd.”

  He took a letter out of his pocket and handed it to the detective, who opened it and read as follows:

  “Si Milord ne rend pas ce qu’il ne doit pas garder, le coup de foudre lui tombera sur la tête.”

  There was no signature, nor any date.

  Gimblet turned the sheet over thoughtfully. The message was typewritten on a piece of thin foreign paper; the postmark on the envelope was Paris, and the stamps French. He folded it again and replaced it in its cover.

  “It seems the usual threatening anonymous communication,” he observed. “Have you any idea who it’s from?”

  Mark shook his head.

  “None,” he confessed. “It looks, though, as if my uncle
had in his possession something belonging to the writer, doesn’t it? Don’t you think it might have something to do with the murder?”

  “I don’t see why the murderer should send a threatening letter after the deed was done,” said the detective. “Still less could he have posted it in Paris on the very day the crime was committed.”

  “No, that’s true enough,” Mark admitted reluctantly.

  “Has any suspicious looking person been seen about this place, this summer? Any foreigner, for instance?” asked the detective.

  “No; no,” Mark replied. “I should have heard of it for certain if there had been. It would have been an event, down here.”

  Gimblet dropped the subject.

  “If I may,” he said. “I will keep this. It may lead to something,” he added, tucking the letter away in an inside pocket. “That’s all, I suppose?”

  Mark was silent for a minute. He seemed to be thinking.

  “That’s all I know about the murder,” he said at last, “but there are plenty of complications apart from that. I suppose Miss Byrne told you that my uncle electrified us all by saying she was his daughter, only an hour or so before he died?”

  Gimblet nodded. “Yes,” he said, “she told me.”

  “It makes it very awkward for me,” said Mark. “I want to do the right thing, but I’m hanged if I know what I ought to do. You see, my uncle used to say that he’d left his property between me and David; he never made any secret of it, and as a matter of fact I’ve had a communication from his London lawyers, telling me they have a very old will, made when I was a small boy, long before the birth of his son, and that everything is left to me. There were reasons why he may have thought David would be provided for—he was engaged to marry a very rich American, but she dropped him yesterday like a red-hot coal as soon as it began to look as if he’d be suspected. She’s gone now, I’m glad to say. As a matter of fact, if David can only be cleared of this horrible charge, I shall insist on dividing my inheritance with him. That is, if I can’t get Miss Byrne to take it, or Miss McConachan, as I ought to call her now.”

  “Lord Ashiel could leave his money where he liked, couldn’t he?” Gimblet inquired.

  “Yes, he could, but he would naturally have left it to his daughter, if she really was his daughter. In fact, Miss McConachan says he told her he had done so, but I haven’t come across the will so far, though I had a good hunt through his papers this morning; Blanston and the housekeeper, who say they witnessed some document which may have been a will, have no idea where it is. Of course, my uncle may have intended to say that he was going to make one, and Miss McConachan may have misunderstood him, but she seems to think he had some secret hiding-place of his own, and I hope to goodness you’ll be able to hit on it, if he had. I can’t stand the idea of profiting by a lost will, and I’d far rather simply hand over the money than bother to look for this missing paper.”

  “Oh, I daresay it will turn up,” said Gimblet. “You haven’t had much time to find it yet.”

  “My uncle was a very methodical man. Everything is in its place. You wait till you see his papers! If he made a will he must have hidden it somewhere where we shall never dream of looking for it. It’s just waste of time hunting about, and I shall have another try at persuading my new cousin to let me make over everything to her.”

  “It is not every young man in your position who would part so readily with a large fortune,” observed Gimblet.

  But Mark awkwardly deprecated his approving words.

  “Oh,” he said, “I’m sure any decent chap would do the same in my place.”

  CHAPTER X

  “And now,” said Gimblet, “may I visit the scene of the crime?”

  Mark took him first to his uncle’s bedroom; a room austere in its simplicity, with bare white-washed walls and uncarpeted floor. No one could have hidden a sheet of paper in that room, thought the detective, as he gazed round it, after he had looked, with a feeling akin to guilt, on the features of the dead peer. He had not known how to protect this man from the dreadful fate that had struck him down from a direction so utterly unexpected, and he held himself, in a way, responsible for his death.

  Then young Ashiel led him away, down a wide corridor into the billiard-room, and so into another passage, at the end of which a door of stout and time-darkened oak gave access to the library. It creaked noisily on its hinges, as he pushed it open and ushered Gimblet in. They stepped into a square room, comfortably furnished, with deep arm-chairs, and a large chippendale writing-table which stood at right angles to the bow window, so placed that anyone writing at it should have the light upon his left. It was rather a dark room, the walls being lined with books from floor to ceiling, except at two points: opposite the window an alcove, panelled in ancient oak, appeared in the wall; and above the fireplace, opposite the door, the wall was panelled in the same manner and covered by an oil painting, representing Lord Ashiel’s grandmother. The polished boards were unconcealed by any rug or carpet, and reflected a little of the light from the window. An ominous discoloration near the writing-table showed plainly upon them.

  In the glass of the mullioned casement was the small round hole made by the fatal bullet.

  Gimblet glanced at the bureau on which the writing materials were set out in perfect order, and could not conceal his annoyance.

  “Everything has been moved, I see,” he said. “Why couldn’t they leave it as it was for a few hours longer?”

  “Nothing was touched till after the police had gone,” said Mark. “I confess I did not think it necessary to leave things alone once they were out of the house. Not only have the housemaids been at work in here, but I spent most of the morning here myself, going through the papers in that bureau. Will it matter much?” He spoke with evident dismay.

  “Never mind,” said Gimblet, “I suppose Macross’s people photographed everything, and I can get copies from them, I have no doubt. By the by, what did Sir David Southern say about having been in the room while you were in bed? Did he admit it; and did he say why he moved the body?”

  “He said he’d not been near the place,” replied Mark, looking more perplexed and worried than ever. “I can’t understand it at all,” he added. “Why should he deny it to me?”

  Gimblet opened a drawer in the bureau. Papers filled it, tied together in bundles and neatly docketed. They seemed to be receipted bills. He glanced at the pigeon-holes, and opened one or two more drawers. Everywhere the most fastidious order reigned.

  “You have been through all these?” he asked.

  “Yes, but there is a cupboard full in the smoking-room. I thought of looking into those this afternoon.”

  “It would be a good plan,” Gimblet agreed. “Don’t let me keep you,” And as the young man still lingered, “I prefer,” he confessed, “to do my work alone. If you will kindly get me a shooting-boot of Sir David Southern’s, I shall do better if I am left to myself.”

  “If that is really the case,” said Mark, “I have no choice but to leave you. I admit I should have liked to see your methods, but if I should be a hindrance—”

  Gimblet did not deny it, and Mark departed to fetch the boots.

  “This is not the identical pair,” he said when he returned. “The police took those; but these come from the same maker and are nearly the same, so Blanston tells me.”

  “Ah, yes, Blanston,” said Gimblet. “I must see him presently. Thanks very much.”

  Left alone, Gimblet examined the window, opening one of the small-paned casements, and measuring the space between the mullions and the central bars of iron. Satisfied as to the impossibility of any ordinary-sized person passing through those apertures, he took one more look round, and then with a swift movement drew each of the heavy curtains across the bay. They did not quite meet in the middle, as Juliet had observed. Then he made his way out into the garden through the door just outside, at the end of the passage which led from the billiard-room to the library.

  The librar
y was at the far end of the oldest portion of Inverashiel Castle. To Gimblet, examining it from the outside, it looked as if the room had been hewn out of the solid walls of the ancient fortress; for beyond the mullioned, seventeenth-century window, the wall turned sharply to the left and was continued with scarce a loophole in the stupendous blocks of its surface for a distance of fifty yards or so, where it was succeeded by the lower, less heavy battlements of the old out-works. In the angle formed by the turn and immediately opposite the window of the library, a long flower-bed, planted with standard and other rose trees, with violas growing sparsely in between, stretched its blossoming length, and continued up to the actual stones of the library wall. At the farther end of it, a thick hedge of holly bordered on the roses at right angles to the end of the battlements; while the lawn on his left was spangled with geometrically shaped beds showing elaborate arrangements of heliotrope, ageratum, calceolarias, and other bedding-out plants.

  Gimblet walked slowly along the lawn at the edge of the bed, his eyes on the black peaty mould, where it was visible among the flowers. About twenty yards from the hedge, he stopped with a muffled exclamation. The bed in front of him was covered with footprints of all shapes and sizes; but plainly distinguishable among the rest were the neat nail-encrusted marks which matched the boot he held in his hand. He put it down on the ground and carefully made an imprint with it in the soil, beside the existing footmarks. It was easy to single out its fellows.

  “Two extra nails,” murmured Gimblet to himself, “but otherwise, the same. Probably made on the same last.”

  Stepping cautiously in the places where his predecessors had walked, he followed the tracks that had betrayed Sir David Southern. They were numerous and distinct; he counted fourteen of each separate foot. First Sir David would seem to have walked straight across the bed, then returned and taken up his position near the middle. He was not contented with that, it seemed, for he had walked backwards five or six paces and then moved sideways again till he was exactly opposite the opening between the curtains. Here the ground was trampled down as if he had several times shifted slightly from one place to another. Whether or not he was exactly in line with the writing-table Gimblet could not see, as its position was hidden in the obscurity behind the drawn curtains. It would want a light there to prove that, thought Gimblet; still there was no reason to doubt that it was so. There were four or five more footmarks leading back to the lawn, and over these Gimblet stooped with particular interest.