The Bulldog Drummond Megapack

by H. C. McNeile

  “Good,” said Drummond. “The oracle has spoken: ghosts are off. And that being so, I think we might go home, Ted, and hit the hay. My kindest regards, Mr. Hardcastle, to the Comtessa, and I sincerely hope that the little wanderer is laid for tonight, at any rate. But you must certainly rope her in for the cinema work your daughter tells me you are interested in. Damned good performer, and no screw to pay. Night, night, souls: we shall doubtless hear, Inspector, when and where our presence is desired.”

  And it was not until they reached the main road that he spoke again.

  “There’s no doubt about it, boys,” he said, “that that little bunch of beauties is pretty high up in the handicap. It’s a pleasure to have met them. There’s a calm nerve about their doings which beats the band. It’s gorgeous. And having shown us the damned old ghost, the subtle way Hardcastle got round the Inspector was a delight. The actual suggestion to say nothing about it came much better from the police than from anyone else.”

  “I gathered from your face you were a bit sceptical about the spectre,” said Darrell.

  “Sceptical!” laughed Drummond. “I should say. For a moment I admit I was taken in: the thing was staged so well. And I’d been going on the assumption that there was only one female in the house. But then I went back to our one basic idea—that Morris was speaking the truth. And that being so, the Inspector’s profound statement that a ghost can’t carry a suit of clothes on its arm assumes a rather different complexion from what the worthy warrior intended. That was the woman whom Morris saw, and who gave him the clothes. And having done her little piece at the top of the stairs, she backed into ‘honey’s’ room, who then bolted the door and let out an ear-splitter. Meanwhile, the ghost vanishes through some secret panel, and that’s that.”

  “Probably you’re right, old boy,” said Jerningham. “But for the life of me I can’t see their object in doing it.”

  “That’s what I was trying to get at, Ted, all the time we were in the hall. And I think it’s this way. Their original plan miscarried owing to our being there, and so they had to amend it. They knew the police would arrive shortly, and that from then on there would always be at least one constable in the house. They knew also that we should mention the woman, which would cause awkward questions. So the first thing they do is to send the Comtessa along after us—I saw the marks of footsteps leaving that panel in the hall—partially to find out what we were going to say, and partially to sustain the bluff that she had been in Plymouth. Now, since that cry we heard was almost certainly Morris in Grimstone Mire, the sweet thing must have known of his death before she saw us. And, incidentally, I wonder if he fell or was pushed: his death was a godsend to them. However, to continue—back we go with the lady, who is suitably greeted by dear Dad, once more registering her absence in Plymouth. Then what about the other woman? If ‘honey’ was in Plymouth, what about the female Morris said he saw? Where was she? Or was it a complete invention? Great idea—stage her as a ghost; and, as I said before, they staged her damned well.”

  “Do you really think—we ought to let them get away with it?” said Darrell.

  “How can we prevent it, old boy? If Morris wasn’t dead, I’d agree with you: he may have been a swine, but we couldn’t have let the poor blighter swing without making an effort to save him. But now he’s dead, what’s the use of worrying? Put it how you will, the only thing we can say is that we believed his story. Who cares? We should merely be regarded as gullible mugs. No, our line is to pretend that we are in complete agreement with the theory put forward by the Inspector, and once the inquest is over set to work from the other end. I’m inclined to think that if there are any survivors left at all of the firm of Marton, Peters and Newall, we might be able to get on to something.”

  “I’m just wondering,” said Jerningham, “if by chance that is one Dick Newall with whom I’ve played a lot of golf. As far as I remember, he is a legal bird of sorts.”

  “The rum thing, to my mind, is what they’re doing down here at all,” said Darrell, as they turned in at the gate of Merridale Hall.

  “The solution of that little problem, old lad,” cried Drummond, “may possibly prove to be the solace of our declining years. But don’t forget that the one essential thing is to make that bunch believe that they’ve fooled us. We’ve got to do a bit in the acting line ourselves. For, unless I’m much mistaken, the situation is this at the moment. They know they’ve bluffed the Inspector: they’re not certain about us. And it therefore behoves us to allay their maidenly fears. Even as the trout must we swallow their little effort. And that is going to entail a certain discretion at the inquest: I should loathe to get it in the neck for perjury.”

  CHAPTER IV

  As was only to be expected, the affair attracted an enormous amount of attention. The escape of Morris, duly reported in all the evening papers, had already brought Dartmoor into the centre of the limelight: the subsequent development increased the interest. Reporters swarmed like blue-bottles; it was unsafe for anyone even remotely connected with the matter to be seen in the open.

  Two facts, one positive and one negative, came to light the next day. The first was the clear imprint of a boot of regulation prison pattern on the track over Grimstone Mire—a boot, moreover, of the size taken by Morris. The second was the complete failure of the police to discover any trace of the weapon with which the crime had been committed.

  And when the inquest opened at eleven o’clock the day after, there was still no sign of it.

  With some reluctance Mr. Hardcastle had agreed to it being held at Glensham House. At first he demurred on the grounds of the added publicity, but when it was pointed out to him how very much proceedings would be facilitated if the enquiry was held on the spot, he finally consented.

  “The whole thing is most annoying. Captain Drummond,” he remarked, as they met in the hall. “I particularly dislike notoriety in any form, and then a crime like this occurs, literally in my house.”

  “Deuced boring, Mr. Hardcastle,” agreed the other sympathetically. “I, too, like to blush unseen. Been worried by the jolly old newspaper men?”

  “They swarm like maggots in a bit of bad meat,” snorted Hardcastle.

  “An apt and charming simile,” murmured Drummond. “Ah, well, if you will have these regrettable incidents in the old family mansion, you must expect ’em to sit up and take notice. By the way “—he lowered his voice confidentially—”any further sign of the ghost?”

  The other glanced quickly round the room; then, taking his arm, he drew Drummond on one side.

  “Yes—last night. She was in exactly the same place at the head of the stairs. But not a word to my daughter about it.”

  “The Comtessa has remained on, has she?”

  “I persuaded her to. For one thing alone, I thought it better she should be here over the inquest, in case they want to ask her questions. Tell me, Captain Drummond, what do you make of that apparition?”

  “’Pon my soul, Mr. Hardcastle, it’s deuced difficult to say, isn’t it? We’ve all seen her, and in my own mind I have no doubt that Morris saw her. It’s a strange thing, this haunting of old houses. I remember a great pal of mine whose house was haunted by a little green man. Most astonishing case it was. The little fellow used to come and perch on the end of his bed. And one night, after we’d got my friend there with some trouble—I may say he suffered from another delusion, and that was that whisky didn’t affect his head—we suddenly heard an awful crash outside. My poor old pal had jumped out of the window. We picked him up, Mr. Hardcastle, and with his dying breath he told us what had happened. Thirteen little green men had come just after we left him, all armed with rifles. And as he’d always promised his mother he’d never be shot, he just jumped out. I cried like a child as the dear fellow passed away. Ah I there, if I mistake not, is your charming daughter. Good morning, Comtessa: I hear you have decided to risk the ghost.”

  “Please don’t speak about it. Captain Drummond,” she cried. �
��My father persuaded me to stay on the one more night just for this inquest, but I leave this afternoon. You only saw her in the distance, don’t forget: when I saw her she was as close as I am to you.”

  “A terrifying experience, Comtessa,” he remarked gravely. “Hullo! it looks as if the individual with the somewhat bulbous nose is about to kick off. Incidentally, who is the man talking to your father?”

  “Mr. Peters,” she said. “He is one of the members of Bob Marton’s firm.”

  He proved to be the first witness, and identified the murdered man as Robert Marton. He explained that no relative was available for the purpose owing to the recent death of Mr. Marton, senior, and that he had therefore come down from London on hearing the news. He further added that it was he who had sent him down at the request of Mr. Hardcastle, who had recently acquired the lease of Glensham House through his firm.

  “When did he receive your instructions?” demanded the Coroner.

  “On Tuesday afternoon—the day before he was murdered. I gave him the address on a piece of paper, as he did not know the house.”

  The Coroner consulted some documents in front of him. “Am I not right in supposing that it was on Tuesday evening that his father was killed owing to an accident with a gun?” he asked.

  “Perfectly right,” said Peters, speaking with some emotion. “I may say that the two things coming so close together has been a very great shock to me and the other members of the firm.”

  The Coroner nodded sympathetically. “I am sure that we understand that, Mr. Peters,” he said. “But there is one point that I should like to get clear. You say that you gave him his instructions on Tuesday afternoon, so that he left London on Wednesday morning. Where did he spend Tuesday night? I assume he cannot have been at home; for if he had been, his father’s death would naturally have prevented him coming here.”

  “Exactly,” agreed the witness. “From inquiries I have made I find that Robert Marton did not go home on Tuesday night.”

  “Have you any idea where he stayed?”

  “None whatever, sir. His train on Wednesday morning left Paddington very early, and he probably stopped at some hotel.”

  “So he was in ignorance of his father’s death?”

  “That I can’t tell you, as he may have seen it in the papers. But I assume he did not, as otherwise he would surely have got out at the first stop and returned to Surbiton.”

  “And he did not telephone to his father or mother or send them any message saying he was remaining in London for the night?”

  “Certainly not to his mother. With regard to his father, unfortunately I cannot tell you, I should think in all probability not. Had he done so, I think he would have told Mrs. Marton.”

  Peters stood down, and Hardcastle was called.

  “Now, Mr. Hardcastle,” said the Coroner, “will you kindly tell us all you know of this distressing affair?”

  The witness bowed gravely.

  “Distressing is too mild a word for it, sir,” he remarked. “I feel that I shall never forgive myself for having been the unwitting cause of this poor boy’s death. He was down here on business for me, and then this ghastly thing happened to him.”

  He paused, overcome with emotion.

  “However,” he continued, after recovering his composure, “I will tell you all I know. My daughter, my friends and I came down here on Tuesday to have a look at the house, which, as Mr. Peters told you, I have recently leased. Marton was to come down on Wednesday, as you have heard. That morning we all went over to Plymouth to see that some alterations on my yacht had been carried out. Then, leaving my daughter there, we returned here to find that a dense fog had come down. I may say,” he remarked with a faint smile, “that we are accustomed to things on a big scale in my country, but that fog beat anything we’ve ever turned out. You gentlemen may be used to it, but it defeated us. However, as time went on and he did not appear, we realised he must have lost his way, and so my friend Mr. Slingsby and I went out to look for him. And it was then we ran into two warders on the road, who told us about the escaped convict, and also mentioned that they had met a young man who was obviously lost, but who had finally reached Merridale Hall—the property of this gentleman.”

  He bowed to Jerningham.

  “From their description of him we realised it must be Marton, and so we walked on with the idea of finding Merridale Hall. In the fog we missed it, and then we got hopelessly lost ourselves. We wandered backwards and forwards, and then there came a crash from some little distance off which sounded like a car running into a gate or a wall. We blundered on until, quite suddenly, Marton ran right into us. He told us he had had a drink at Merridale Hall, and had then come on in another attempt to find us.”

  He paused and blew his nose.

  I now come, sir, to the dreadful tragedy. The boy, I may say, did not seem at all himself. He was nervy, and about seven o’clock he began to shiver. Clearly he’d got fever, and so I gave him some quinine and told him to go to bed. And that “—his emotion was evident—” was the last time I saw the poor lad alive.”

  “Take your time, Mr. Hardcastle,” said the Coroner. “We all of us understand how you feel.”

  “I thank you, sir,” continued the witness, after a moment or two. “I should think it was about eight o’clock that Mr. Slingsby and I decided to go for a walk. It seemed to us that the fog had lifted a little, and we felt the need of some exercise. Mr. Penton refused to come, but went to the garage instead, as something had gone wrong with the car. We thought that if we stuck to the main road we should have no difficulty, but somehow or other we got off it, and once again we found ourselves lost. And it was not until well after ten that we finally got back to the house. The first thing we found was that the whole of our supper had been eaten, and we were just blaming Mr. Penton, as being the only possible person who could have taken it, when a man dashed down the stairs, rushed through the hall and vanished into the night. We stood dumbfounded, and a moment or two later we saw three gentlemen standing on the top of the stairs. And they told us what had happened in our absence.”

  He paused again, and sighed deeply.

  “I blame myself bitterly, Mr. Coroner, for having gone out and left that sick boy alone in the house. I knew about this escaped convict, but frankly the thought of such a ghastly tragedy never entered my head. Had it done so, I need hardly state that nothing would have induced me to leave the house.”

  He sat down, and a murmur of sympathy came from the jury.

  “Thank you, Mr. Hardcastle,” said the Coroner. “I speak for the Jury as well as myself when I say that your feelings are only natural. But I can assure you that no vestige of blame can be attached to you for what you did. There is, however, one question I would like to ask you. Did the murdered man say anything to you about his father’s death?”

  “No, sir: not a word. The first I heard of it was from this gentleman, Captain Drummond.”

  “Thank you. Then I think we may safely conclude that Robert Marton was in ignorance of the fact. And now, to keep things in their correct order, I will call Captain Drummond. My first question, sir, is to ask what brought you here at all?”

  “My friends and I, believing the house to be empty, decided that we would come along and see if the rumour of its being haunted was true,” answered Drummond.

  “And did you see a ghost?” asked the Coroner with ponderous sarcasm.

  “Other things occupied our attention, sir,” murmured Drummond.

  “Kindly tell us what happened?”

  “The first thing was that a strong reek of cigarette smoke proved the house was not empty. And we traced it to the room in which we found Morris.”

  “Did you know it was Morris as soon as you saw him?”

  “Yes,” said Drummond. “A warder had given me a description of him earlier in the day, and I spotted him by the red scar on his face.”

  “And then?”

  “I recognised the clothes he was wearing as bel
onging to a young man called Marton who had lost his way during the afternoon and come to Merridale Hall.”

  Briefly Drummond outlined the events of the afternoon, and Darrell watched Hardcastle covertly. But his face was as expressionless as the Sphinx.

  “You, too, say that he seemed nervy,” said the Coroner when Drummond had finished.

  “He did.”

  “Did he give you any reason?”

  “I think the unexpected appearance of the two warders looming out of the fog and the discharge of a rifle had shaken him considerably.”

  “Were you not surprised when you returned with your friends to find him gone?”

  “Very. And my assumption was that he was a little ashamed of the condition of fright he had been in and had left.”

  “Did he say he was going to Glensham House?”

  “He never mentioned Glensham House.”

  “Now, Mr. Hardcastle stated that it was you who told him of the death of Mr. Marton, senior. How did you know?”

  Once again Darrell glanced at Hardcastle, whose eyes were now fixed on Drummond.

  “Marton told me his name and the name of his firm,” said Drummond. “And when I happened to see the account of the accident in the paper, I assumed it was either his father or his uncle who was dead.”

  Almost imperceptibly Hardcastle relaxed.

  “I see,” said the Coroner. “Now, Captain Drummond, will you please continue from the point where you found Morris hiding in the room here?”

  “I first of all asked him where he got his clothes from.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He told me that an old woman had given them to him and that they belonged to a son of hers who was dead.”

  “But since you knew they belonged to Marton you must have known that his statement was a lie.”

  “My brain was moving on those lines,” said Drummond mildly, “when we saw the stain on the ceiling.”

  “What did you do when you saw the stain?”

  “We took Morris with us upstairs and went; and investigated. And we then found the murdered man.”