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

by Marion Bryce

  “Oh, I had an idea,” said Gimblet evasively. “But if he’s as tall as you, I had better begin again. I think I’ll take a little stroll through the grounds,” he added, “and then back to Lady Ruth Worsfold’s house, and get a bath and a change.”

  “I shall see you at dinner-time,” said Ashiel. “I am dining at the cottage. Au revoir till then.”

  Gimblet went out of the front door, and proceeded to make a tour of the Castle buildings.

  Turning to his left round the front of the house, he passed the gun-room door, and went down a short path, which led to the level of the servants’ quarters. These were built on the slope of the hill, so that what was a basement in the front of the house was level with the ground at the back.

  Here more remains of the old fortress were to be seen. The various outbuildings that straggled down towards the loch had all once formed part of old block-houses or outlying towers; and, as the path descended farther down the hill, the detective found himself walking round the precipitous rock from which the single great tower still standing—the one in whose massive shell the room had been cut which was now the library—dominated the scene from every side.

  It had been built at the very edge of the hill which here fell almost sheer to the level of the lake, and the old McConachans had no doubt chosen their site for its unscalable position. Indeed, the place must always have been impregnable from that side, the rock offering no foothold to a goat till within twenty feet of the base of the tower, where the surface was broken and uneven, and had, in places, been built up with solid masonry. In the crevices up there, seeds had germinated and grown to tall plants and bushes. Ivy hung about the face of the escarpment like a scarf, and in one place a good-sized tree, a beech, had established itself firmly upon a ledge and leant forward over the path below in a manner that turned the beholder giddy. Its great roots had not been able to grow to their full girth within the cracks and crannies of the rocks; some of them had pushed their way in through the gaps in the masonry, and the others curled and twisted in mid air, twining and interlacing in an outspread canopy.

  Beyond the tower ran the battlemented wall of the enclosed garden, its foundations draped in the thrifty vegetation of the rocks.

  At Gimblet’s feet, on the other side of the path, brawled a burn, hurrying on its way to the loch, and he followed its course slowly down to the place where it mingled with the deep waters. A little beyond he saw the point of a fir-covered peninsula, and wandered on under the trees till he came to the end of it; there he sat down to think over what he had heard and seen that afternoon. The wild beauty of the place soothed and delighted him, and he felt lazily in his pocket for a chocolate.

  Below him, grey lichen-grown rocks jutted into the loch in tumbled, broken masses, piled heedlessly one on the other, as if some troll of the mountain had begun in play to make a causeway for himself. The great stones, so old, so fiercely strong, stood knee-deep in the waters, over which they seemed to brood with so patient and indifferent a dignity that human life and affairs took on an aspect very small and inconsiderable. They were like monstrous philosophers, he thought, oblivious alike to time and to the cold waves that lapped their feet; their heads crowned here and there with pines as with scattered locks, the little tufts of heather and fern and grasses, that clung to them wherever root hold could be found, all the clothing they wore against the bitter blasts of the winds.

  While he sat there a breeze got up and ruffled the loch; the ripples danced and sparkled like a cinematograph, and waves threw themselves among the rocks with loud gurglings and splashings. The air was suddenly full of the noise and hurry of the waters. He got up and went to the end of the peninsula. In spite of the dancing light upon the surface and the merry sounds of the ripples, the water, he could see, was deep and dark; a little way out a pale smooth stone rose a few feet above the level of it, its top draped in a velvet green shawl of moss. A fat sea-gull sat there; nor did it move when he appeared.

  A little bay ran in between the rocks, its shore spread with grey sand, smooth and trackless. At least so Gimblet imagined it at first, as his eye roved casually over the beach. Then suddenly, with a smothered ejaculation, he leaped down from his perch of observation, and made his way to the margin of the water.

  There, scored in the sand, was a deep furrow, reaching to within a foot of the waves, where it stopped as if it had been wiped out from a slate with a damp sponge. Gimblet had no doubt what it was. A boat had been beached here, and that lately. A glance at the stones surrounding the bay showed him that the water was falling, for in quiet little pools, within the outer breakwater of rocks, a damp line showed on the granite a full quarter of an inch above the water. By a rapid calculation of the time it would take for that watermark to dry, the detective was able to form some idea of the rate at which the loch was falling, and he thought he could judge the slope of the beach sufficiently well to calculate about how long it was since the track in the sand had reached to the brink of the waves.

  It was a rough guess, but, if he were right, then a boat had landed in that bay some forty-two hours ago. But there were other traces, besides, the tracks of him who had brought the boat ashore. From where Gimblet stood, a double row of footprints, going and returning, showed plainly between the water and the stones to which the sand quickly gave place. They were the tracks left by large boots with singularly pointed toes, and with no nails on the soles. Emphatically not boots such as any of the men of those parts would be likely to wear.

  Gimblet bent over the sand.

  When he rose once more and stood erect upon the beach, he saw under the shadow of the pines the figure of a tall thin man with a lean face and straggling reddish moustache, who was watching him with an eye plainly suspicious. He was dressed in knickerbockers and coat of rough tweed of a large checked pattern, and carried a spy-glass slung over his back. The detective went to him at once.

  “Are you employed on the Inverashiel estate?” he asked civilly.

  “I’m Duncan McGregor, his lordship’s head keeper,” was the reply, given in the cold tones of one accosted by an intruder.

  Gimblet hastened to introduce himself and to explain his presence, and McGregor condescended to thaw.

  “I should be very much obliged,” said Gimblet, “if you would take a look at the sands where you saw me standing. I’d like to know your opinion on some marks that are there.”

  The keeper strode down to the beach.

  “A boat will have been here,” he pronounced after a rapid scrutiny.

  “Lately?” asked Gimblet.

  He saw the man’s eyes go, as his own had done, to the watermarks on the rocks.

  “No sae vary long ago,” he said, “I’m thinkin’ it will hae been the nicht before lairst that she came here.”

  “Ah,” said Gimblet, “I’m glad you agree with me. That’s what I thought myself. Do boats often come ashore on this beach?”

  McGregor considered.

  “It’s the first time I ever h’ard of onybody doin’ the like,” he said at last. “The landin’ stage is awa’ at the ether side o’ the p’int; it’s aye there they land. There’s nae a man in a’ this glen would come in here, unless it whar for some special reason. It’s no’ a vary grand place tae bring a boat in. The rocks are narrow at the mouth.”

  “Do strangers often come to these parts?”

  “There are no strangers come to Inverashiel,” said the keeper. “The high road runs at the ether side o’ the loch through Crianan, and the tramps and motors go over it, but never hae I known one o’ that kind on our shore.”

  Gimblet observed with some amusement that the man spoke of motors and tramps as of varieties of the same breed; but all he said was:

  “Could you make inquiries as to whether anyone on the estate happens to have brought a boat in here during the last week? I should be glad if you could do so without mentioning my name, or letting anyone think it is important.”

  He felt he could trust the discretion of thi
s taciturn Highlander.

  “I’ll that, sir,” was the reply.

  And Gimblet could see, in spite of the man’s unchanging countenance, that he was pleased at this mark of confidence in him.

  “Could you take me to the head gardener’s house?” he asked, abruptly changing the subject. “I should rather like a talk with him.”

  McGregor conducted him down the road to the lodge.

  “It’s in here whar Angus Malcolm lives,” he remarked laconically. “Good evening, sir.”

  He turned and strode away over the hillside, and Gimblet knocked at the door. It was opened by the gardener, and he had a glimpse through the open doorway of a family at tea.

  “I’m sorry I disturbed you,” he said. “I will look in again another day. Lord Ashiel referred me to you for the name of a rose I asked about, but it will do to-morrow.”

  The gardener assured him that his tea could wait, but Gimblet would not detain him.

  “I shall no doubt see you up in the garden to-morrow,” he said. “The roses in that long bed outside the library are very fine, and I am interested in their culture. I wonder they do so well in this peaty soil.”

  “Na fie, man, they get on splendid here,” said Malcolm. He liked nothing better than to talk about his flowers, but, being a Highlander, resented any suggestion that his native earth was not the best possible for no matter what purpose. “We just gie them a good dressin’ doon wie manure ilka year.”

  “Do you use any patent fertilizer?” Gimblet asked.

  “Oh, just a clean oot wie a grain o’ basic slag noo and than,” said the gardener. “And I just gie them some lime ilka time I think the ground is needin’ it.”

  “Well, the result is very good,” said the detective. “By the way, have you been working on that bed lately? I picked this up among the violas. Did you happen to drop it?”

  He took from his pocket a small paper notebook, and held it out interrogatively.

  “Na, I hinna dropped it,” answered the gardener. “It micht have been some one fay the castel. I hinna been near that rose-bed for fower or five days. And it couldna hae been lying there afore the rain.”

  Indeed, the little book showed no trace of damp on its green cover.

  “I asked in the castle, but no one claimed it,” said Gimblet. “Perhaps it belongs to one of your men?”

  “There’s been naebody been workin’ there this week. So it disna belong tae neen o’ the gair’ners, if it’s there ye fund’t,” repeated Malcolm. “There’s been nae work deen on that bed for the last fortnicht or mair. I was thinkin’ o’ sendin’ a loon ower’t wie a hoe in a day or twa. Ye see, wie the murrder it’s been impossible tae get ony work done; apairt fay that we’ve been busy wie the fruit and ether things.”

  “I didn’t notice any weeds,” said Gimblet. “But I won’t keep you any longer, now. Perhaps to-morrow afternoon I may see you in the garden, and if so I shall get you to tell me the name of that rose.”

  CHAPTER XII

  Juliet failed to extract much comfort from Gimblet when, about six o’clock, she met him coming up through the garden to Inverashiel Cottage.

  All the afternoon she had possessed her soul in what patience she could muster, which was not a great deal. Still, by dint of repeating to herself that she must give the detective time to study the facts, and opportunity to verify them at his leisure and in his own way, she had managed to get through the long inactive hours, and to force herself not to dwell upon the vision of David in prison, which, do as she would, was ever before her eyes.

  Events had followed one another so fast during the last few days that her mind was dulled, as by a succession of rapid blows, and she was hardly conscious of anything beyond the unbearable pain caused by the cumulative shocks she had undergone.

  First had come the heart-rending knowledge that David loved her; heart-rending only because he was bound to Miss Tarver, for, if it had not been for that paralyzing obstacle, she knew she would have gladly followed him to the ends of the earth. Indeed, in spite of everything, his betrayal of his feelings towards her had filled her with a joy that almost counterbalanced the hopeless misery to which, on her more completely realizing the situation, it gradually gave place.

  Then had come the swift physical disaster from which she had barely escaped with her life. She had not had time to recover from this when, a few hours later, she had been called upon to face the emotions and agitations aroused by the news of her relationship to Lord Ashiel, and the history of her birth and parentage. In the midst of this excitement had come the sudden tragedy of which she had been a witness, and which had overwhelmed and prostrated her with grief and horror. Next day she had been obliged to undergo the ordeal of being cross-questioned by the police, and close upon that had come the final catastrophe of David’s arrest and departure. This last shock so overshadowed all the rest of her misfortunes that it stimulated her to action, and she had herself run most of the way to the post office two miles down the road, to send the telegram of appeal to Gimblet.

  Once that was dispatched, hope revived a little in her heart.

  Lord Ashiel, her father, had told her to send for the detective if she were in trouble. Well, she was in trouble; she had sent for him; he would come, and somehow he would find a way of putting straight this hideous nightmare in which she found herself living. How happy, in comparison, had been her life in Belgium, in the household of her adopted father and stepmother! She could have found it in her heart to wish she had never left their roof; but that would have involved never making the acquaintance of David, a possibility she could not contemplate.

  Even now the remembrance of the rapidity with which Miss Tarver had packed her traps, renounced her betrothed and all his works, and fled from the scene of disaster by the first available train, did much to cheer her in the midst of all her depression.

  It was not, however, until some time after Lady Ruth Worsfold had asked her to stay with her for the present, and she had removed herself and her belongings to the cottage, that she realized how impossible it was for her to make good her position as Lord Ashiel’s daughter and heir. She had his word for it, and that was enough for her; but she understood, as soon as it occurred to her, that more would be required by the law before she could claim either the name or the inheritance which should be hers.

  In the meantime, though touched by the generosity of the new Lord Ashiel, who offered to waive his rights in her favour, and indeed suggested other plans for enabling her to remain at the castle as its owner, she felt that what he proposed was absolutely impossible, and while she thanked him, declined firmly to do anything of the sort.

  At the back of her mind was the conviction that the will her father had spoken of would come to light. It would surely be found, if not by herself, then by Gimblet. She acceded to Mark’s request that she should join him in looking through his uncle’s papers. They went over those in the library together before she left the house.

  Now that Gimblet had come back from the castle, where he had spent half the day, he must have good news for her, she felt persuaded. But to all her questions he would only reply that he had nothing definite to tell her, and that she must wait till to-morrow or even longer. Indeed, she thought he seemed anxious to get away from her, and asked at once if he might see his room.

  “I want a bath more than anything,” he said. And then, taking pity on her distress, “I wouldn’t worry myself too much about Sir David’s safety if I were you,” he added, looking at her with a very kind, friendly light in his eyes. But as she exclaimed joyfully and pressed him to be more explicit, his look changed to one of admonition, and he held a finger to his lips. “Not a word to a living soul, whoever it may be,” he cautioned her, “and be careful not to show any hope you may be so optimistic as to feel,” he added, smiling, “or you may ruin the whole thing. This is a very dark and dangerous affair, and the less it is spoken about, even between friends, the better.”

  “Mayn’t I even tell Lady Ruth?”
she asked. “She is very anxious, I know.”

  “Better not,” he warned her. “It may be better for Sir David in the long-run, if his friends think him guilty a few days longer. It will be wisest if you let it appear that even you can hardly continue to cling to the idea of his innocence. You can be trusted to act a part where such great issues are involved, can you not? More may depend on it than you think.”

  “I’ll be silent as the grave,” she cried. “As the grave,” she repeated more soberly, and turned away, reproaching herself silently, since in her anxiety for David her sorrow for her father had been a moment forgotten.

  When Gimblet came down again, clean and refreshed, he found no one but his hostess, Lady Ruth Worsfold.

  Lady Ruth’s hair was white, in appearance she was short and squat, and she had a curiously disconnected habit of conversation, but for all that she was a person of great discernment, and uncommonly wide awake. She sided staunchly with Juliet in her belief in David’s innocence.

  “Never,” she said, “will I credit such a thing of the lad. You may say what you like, Mr. Gimblet, you can prove till you’re black in the face that he murdered every soul in the house, it won’t make any difference to me.”

  “Who do you think did do it, Lady Ruth?” Gimblet asked.

  “What do I know? An escaped lunatic, one of the keepers, the under housemaid, anyone you like. What does it matter? It wasn’t David, even though his namesake did kill Goliath, and I always disliked the name, having suffered from a Biblical one myself. I said to his mother when he was born. ‘For goodness’ sake give the poor child a name he won’t be expected to live up to. Just fancy how his friends will hate to be known as Jonathans, let alone thingamy’s wife. You’re laying up a scandal for your son,’ I told her, and if my words haven’t come true it’s more thanks to him than to his parents. A nice pink and white baby he was, poor boy. There’s just one good side to this dreadful affair,” she went on without a pause, “and that is that the young lady with the dollars whom he was to have married, and hated the sight of, has thrown him over. The first least little breath of suspicion was enough for her, and the moment he was downright accused she was off. And he’s well rid of her, dollars and all An Englishman of his birth and looks doesn’t need to go to Chicago for a wife.”