by Annie Haynes
“The Bungalow.” The doctor drew in his lips as, the woman running to keep pace with his long strides, he hurried down the little drive that led to his front gate. That there were curious rumours about the tenant of The Bungalow—a middle-aged artist, apparently possessed of considerable means, who had had the bad taste to refuse absolutely to make any acquaintances—it would have been impossible to live for six months in Sutton Boldon without knowing. The gossips had decided that his disinclination for society argued a disreputable past and, being completely in the dark with regard to his antecedents, had proceeded to invent various discreditable stories which might account for his hermit-like preference for his own society.
Lavington himself had rarely seen his neighbour, an occasional glimpse in the garden having been hitherto his only opportunity, and as he entered the long, low room leading out of the passage he was surprised to see how massive the frame of the man was who was stretched upon the floor, how large and well-formed his limbs.
The doctor’s face was grave as he knelt down and made a cursory examination, the woman, meanwhile, standing in the doorway watching him with ashen face and wide-open dilated eyes.
At last he looked up.
“I can do no good here. He must have died instantaneously!”
A sort of quiver passed over the white face of the woman in the doorway.
“I can’t think how he came to do it,” she said hoarsely. “It wasn’t as if he had any trouble. He always said—”
“You are making a mistake, my good woman,” the doctor checked her sternly as he rose. “This is no case of suicide. Your master has been murdered!”
“Murdered!” With a cry the woman shrank back and put up her hand to her eyes. “Ah, no, no! He—”
“He has been shot through the brain. And there is no sign of the pistol from which the shot was fired—that alone would be conclusive,” said the doctor grimly. “But the position of the wound shows that it could not have been self-inflicted. I should say, probably, robbery was the motive: you can see that his pockets have been rifled.”
“What!” The housekeeper started violently. “They were not when I was here. They cannot be!”
“Look for yourself.”
The doctor pointed to the prostrate figure. One of the coat-pockets was turned inside out; two or three envelopes and a cigar-case lay on the carpet.
The woman uncovered her face, her eyes looked wild and staring. She glanced fearfully round, at the open door behind her, at the darkness beyond.
“I did not see—I did not know! Who—”
The doctor shrugged his shoulders.
“That we have to find out. The first thing to be done is to let the police know. Is there anyone in the house whom you can send?”
She shook her head.
“I did for him altogether. He was never one to care for many folks about him.”
“Then the question resolves itself into this: Will you stay here while I go, or shall I—”
“I—I daren’t, sir!” the housekeeper broke in, her agitation becoming almost unbearable. “It is as much as I can do to stay in the house when you are here. I should go mad if I was left alone with him!”
Lavington glanced at her coldly: something in her emotion impressed him unfavourably. For a moment the idea of sending her to his house for help occurred to him, but the thought of the shock to his aunt restrained him.
“Then I will stay here and you must go,” he said shortly. “Be as quick as you can, please.”
The woman waited for no second bidding; she turned through the door, and Roger heard her running swiftly down the garden path outside.
Left alone, he looked down once more at the dead man. Who was the assassin, he wondered, who had stolen in from the darkness? Was it a thief, tempted by the thought of the gold that he might find? Or was it some one who had been once friend or foe of the dead man? But the blank, silent face before him could not answer his questions; there was nothing more to be done, and he was about to turn to the door when a faint fluttering sigh caught his ear. He paused and looked round. Everything was silent; apparently he and the dead man were the only occupants of the room; but Roger’s trained eye caught an almost imperceptible movement of one of the thick window curtains.
He sprang forward and flung the curtain aside. Then he stood as if thunderstruck. Opposite, crouching against the wall, a small packet in her arms, her eyes wide open, dilated apparently in the last extremity of terror, was a young girl, looking almost a child as the lamplight fell on her white face and gleaming, dishevelled hair.
Lavington stared at her in utter amazement.
“What on earth are you doing here?” he questioned at last.
The stiff lips moved, but no words came; the brown eyes gazed back at him with the dazed, uncomprehending stare of a child.
Roger put out his hand and caught her arm.
“Why are you here? What have you done?”
With a hoarse cry the girl wrenched herself free and threw herself on her knees before him.
“Help me! Help me! I must get away. If anyone comes—if anyone knows—I shall die.”
Lavington looked down into the anguished, tear-filled eyes, at the trembling lips, hardening his heart by a supreme effort.
“If you haven’t done anything wrong there is nothing to be afraid of,” he said.
But the great terrified eyes, raised so imploringly, had caught the momentary softening in his, and a gleam of hope crept into them. Slowly, falteringly, the girl raised herself, and faced him, steadying herself by the framework of the French window.
“I—perhaps I have done wrong,” she said slowly, her throat twitching convulsively, one slender, ungloved hand still clutching the parcel to her breast, the other clenching and unclenching itself nervously, the delicate almond-shaped nails leaving cruel marks on the rosy palm. “But this will be worse than death. If—if you have a mother—a sister—for their sakes you will let me go!”
Her eyes wandered to the open door; she made a step towards it. Still, Lavington did not move aside, though the stern lines of his mouth had relaxed somewhat. Her appeal had touched a soft place in his heart. He had passionately loved his dead mother; she and the tiny sister who had died just as she had learnt to lisp his name were enshrined in his Holy of holies. What would they bid him do, if the dead could speak, he wondered? Then he recollected how his mother had always been on the side of mercy; his extended hand dropped.
With a sigh of relief the girl slipped by. At the same moment the echo of excited voices reached them from the distance, the sound of heavy measured footfalls. The girl halted and then turned back.
“It is too late! Oh, help me! Hide me! Save me! I am frightened—frightened—for the love of heaven!”
All Lavington’s compassion was roused by the very forlornness of her attitude, by her despairing cry. He glanced round. Had he indeed left it too late? Was there no way of saving her even yet—this girl who had cried to him for help?
A sudden thought struck him; he stepped to the French window and opened it softly.
“See,’’ he said, taking something from his pocket, as with a swift grateful glance she slipped through. “The garden will be searched, and all round will be watched; you cannot get away. But if you go across the lawn, step over the low fence and go up to that door next to the window where you will see a bright light, you can let yourself in with this latchkey. Stay quietly in my consulting-room until I come to you, and do not open the door to anyone.”
He had no time for more, no means of finding out whether she understood or not. Like a frightened rabbit she scudded across the lawn; and when he turned round, after closing the window, the burly form of the village constable stood in the doorway.
“This ’ere seems a bad job, sir.”
“It is indeed.” To his intense disgust, as the man’s small bright eyes watched him curiously, Lavington felt that his colour was changing. “It is impossible from the nature and the direction of the
shot that it could have been self-inflicted,” he went on, recovering his matter-of-fact, professional manner with an effort.
“I see, sir.” Constable Frost’s tone was distinctly non-committal. The constable was on the look out for promotion; it struck him that this case might afford him the opportunity for which he had been longing. He crossed over to Roger, who stood with his back against the thick, dull green curtains. “That window now, sir, I heard you closing it—was it open when you came in?”
“No. I unlatched it for a minute. The room was close.”
“Just so, sir.” The constable opened it and, stepping outside, listened with his head on one side for a minute. “Seems all quiet here, sir. I have sent over to Harleswood for the inspector, but if in the meantime you will oblige me—” He took out his notebook and set down laboriously Roger’s bald account of his summons by the housekeeper, his brief examination of the body and, approximately, the cause of death. Then he looked at the housekeeper.
“And you say you last saw him alive, Mrs. McNaughton?”
“About seven o’clock, it would be,” the housekeeper said tremulously. “He had his tea as usual; when I knocked at the door with the tray (he always had afternoon tea), I found him—like this. But I never thought but he had put an end to himself, poor gentleman!”
“Ay, I dessay. But, you see, Dr. Lavington here says that you were wrong. Besides, a dead man can’t carry away a pistol. You can’t give us any idea who done it, ma’am?”
The woman began to shiver, her eyes looked round the room, anywhere save at that stark, awful figure on the floor.
“I can’t tell you anything. I never heard anybody come in.” The man stooped and picked up something that lay concealed by the dead man’s coat.
“What’s this? How did this ’ere come ’ere?”
Roger bent forward and looked curiously at the long dangling object, then a breath of subtle perfume seemed to reach him; with a sudden exclamation he drew back. It was a woman’s long suede glove that looked so strangely out of place in the constable’s big red hand. As he moved away, some small shining object dropped from it; the constable stooped stiffly to pick it up.
“A ring,” he muttered, turning it about in the lamplight. “Diamonds too. This ’ere ought to be a clue, sir.”
Roger glanced at it; it looked like some family heirloom, he thought, with its quaint, old-fashioned setting.
“Certainly it ought,” he acquiesced.
The amazement grew in Mrs. McNaughton’s face, a bewilderment mixed with a kind of curious shrinking horror.
“I can’t say—I don’t know nothing about it.”
Lavington stepped forward.
“Well, if that is all I can tell you, Frost, I will just step indoors. I am afraid my aunt—”
“Begging your pardon, sir, I should be glad if you would stay till the inspector comes. I expect him every minute now.”
Lavington felt nettled.
“But my good man—”
“I should be blamed, sir, if I let you go afore he come,” the constable went on. “There’ll be explanations as’ll have to be made. There”—he held up his hand—“I hear wheels. Here he is now, sir.”
Published by Dean Street Press 2016
All Rights Reserved
First published in 1927 by The Bodley Head
Cover by DSP
Introduction © 2016 Curtis Evans
ISBN 978 1 911095 30 9
www.deanstreetpress.co.uk