glancing up at the clock. He compared it with his own
16
Murder at Hazelmoor
watch and somehow everyone felt that the action was
significant in some way.
"Let me see," said Mrs. Willett with forced cheerful-ness,
"I think we'd better have cocktails. Will you ring
the bell, Mr. Garfield?"
Ronnie obeyed.
Ingredients for cocktails were brought and Ronnie was
appointed mixer. The situation grew a little easier.
"Well," said Ronnie, raising his glass. "Here's how."
The others responded--all but the silent figure by the
window.
"Major Burnaby. Here's your cocktail."
The Major roused himself with a start. He turned
slowly.
"Thank you, Mrs. Willett. Not for me." He looked
once more out into the night then came slowly back to
the group by the fire. "Many thanks for a very pleasant
time. Good night."
"You're not going?"
"Afraid I must."
"Not so soon. And on a night like this."
"Sorry, Mrs. Willett--but it's got to be done. If there
were only a telephone."
"A telephone?"
"Yes--to tell you the truth--I'm--well, I'd like to be
sure that Joe Trevelyan's all right. Silly susperstition and
all that--but there it is. Naturally, I don't believe in this
tommy rot--but--"
"But you can't telephone from anywhere. There's not
such a thing in Sittaford."
7
CHR
Agatha Christie
"That's just it. As I can't telephone, I'll have to go."
"Go--but you couldn't get a car down that road! Ehner
wouldn't take his car out on such a night."
Ehner was the proprietor of the sole car in the place,
an aged Ford, hired at a handsome price by those who
wished to go into Exhampton.
"No, no--car's out of the question. My two legs will
take me there, Mrs. Willett."
There was a chorus of protest.
"Oh! Major Burnaby--it's impossible. You said yourself
it was going to snow."
"Not for an hour--perhaps longer. I'll get there, never
fear."
"Oh! you can't. We can't allow it."
She was seriously disturbed and upset.
But argument and entreaty had no more effbct on
Major Burnaby than if he were a rock. He was an obstinate
man. Once his mind was made up on any point,
no power on earth could nove him.
He had determined to walk to Exhampton and see for
himself' that all was well with his old friend, and he
repeated that simple statement half' a dozen times.
In the end they were brought to realize that he meant
it. He wrapped himself up in his overcoat, lighted the
hurricane lantern, and stepped out into the night.
"I'll just drop into my place for a flask," he said cheerily,
"and then push straight on. Trevelyan will put me
up for the night when I get there. Ridiculous fuss, I
know. Everything sure to be all right. Don't worry, Mrs.
Willett. Snow or no snow--I'll get there in a couple of
hours. Good night."
18
Murder at Hazelmoor
He strode away. The others returned to the fire.
Rycroft had looked up at the sky.
"It is going to snow," he murmured to Mr. Duke.
"And it will begin long before he gets to Exhampton. I
--I hope he gets there all right."
Duke frowned.
"I know. I feel I ought to have gone with him. One
of us ought to have done so."
"Most distressing," Mrs. Willett was saying. "Most
distressing. Violet, I will not have that silly game ever
played again. Poor Major Burnaby will probably plunge
into a snowdrift--or if he doesn't he'll die of the cold
and exposure. At his age, too. Very foolish of him to go
off like that. Of course, Captain Trevelyan is perfectly
all right."
Everyone echoed:
"Of course."
But even now they did not feel really too comibrtable.
Supposing something had happened to Captain Trevelyan
....
Supposing...
3. Five and Twenty Past Five
T W O and half hours later, just before eight o'clock,
Major Burnaby, hurricane lantern in hand, his head
dropped forward so as not to meet the blinding drive of
the snow, stumbled up the path to the door of "Hazel-moor,"
the small house tenanted by Captain Trevelyan.
The snow had begun to fall about an hour ago--great
blinding flakes of it. Major Burnaby was gasping, emit-ting
the loud sighing gasps of an utterly exhausted man.
He was numbed with cold. He stamped his feet, blew,
puffed, snorted and applied a numbed finger to the bell
push.
The bell trilled shrilly.
Burnaby waited. After a pause of a few minutes, as
nothing happened, he pushed the bell again.
Once more there was no stir of life.
Burnaby rang a third time. This time he kept his finger
on the bell.
It trilled on and on--but there was still no sign of life
in the house.
There was a knocker on the door. Major Burnaby seized
it and worked it vigorously, producing a noise like thunder.
And still the little house remained silent as the dead.
The Major desisted. He stood for a moment as though
perplexed--then he slowly went down the path and out
at the gate, continuing on the road he had come towards
Murder at Hazelmoor
Exhampton. A hundred yards brought him to the small
police station.
He hesitated again, then finally made up his mind and
entered.
Constable Graves, who knew the Major well, rose in
astonishment.
"Well, I never, sir, iancy you being out on a night like
this."
"Look here," said Burnaby curtly. "I've been ringing
and knocking at the Captain's house and I can't get any
answer."
"Why, of course, it's Friday," said Graves who knew
the habits of the two pretty well. "But you don't mean
to say you've actually come down from Sittaford on a
night like this? Surely the Captain would never expect
you."
"Whether he's expected me or not, I've come," said
Burnaby testily. "And as I'm telling you, I can't get in.
I've rung and knocked and nobody answers.'
Some of his uneasiness seemed to communicate itself
to the policeman.
"That's odd," he said, frowning.
"Of course, it's odd," said Burnaby.
"It's not as though he's likely to be out--on a night
like this."
"Of course he's not likely to be out."
"It is odd," said Graves again.
Burnaby displayed impatience at the man's slowness.
"Aren't you going to do something?" he snapped.
"Do something?"
21
Agatha Christie
"Yes, do something."
The policeman ruminated.
"Think he might have been taken bad?" His face
brightened. "I'll try the telephone." It stood at his elbow.
/> He took it up and gave the number.
But to the telephone, as to the front door bell, Captain
Trevelyan gave no reply.
"Looks as though he had been taken bad," said Graves
as he replaced the receiver. "And all alone in the house,
too. We'd best get hold of Dr. Warren and take him
along with us."
Dr. Warren's house was almost next door to the police
station. The doctor was just sitting down to dinner with
his wife and was not best pleased at the summons. However,
he grudgingly agreed to accompany them, drawing
on an aged British Warm and a pair of rubber boots and
muffling his neck with a knitted scarf.
The snow was still falling.
"Damnable night," murmured the doctor. "Hope you
haven't brought me out on a wild goose chase. Trevelyan's
as strong as a horse. Never has anything the matter
with him."
Burnaby did not reply.
Arriving at Hazelmoor once more, they again rang and
knocked, but elicited no response.
The doctor then suggested going round the house to
one of the back windows.
"Easier to force than the door."
Graves agreeing, they went round to the back. There
was a side door which they tried on the way, but it too
was locked, and presently they emerged on the snow
Murder at Hazelmoor
covered lawn that led up to the back windows. Suddenly,
Warren uttered an exclamation.
"The window of the study--it's open."
True enough, the window, a French one, was standing
ajar. They quickened their steps. On a night like this,
no one in his senses would open a window. There was
a light in the room that streamed out in a thin yellow
band.
The three men arrived simultaneously at the
window--Burnaby was the first man to enter, the constable
hard on his heels.
They both stopped dead inside and something like a
muffled cry came from the ex-soldier. In another moment
Warren was beside them, and saw what they had seen.
Captain Trevelyan lay on the floor, face downwards.
His arms sprawled widely. The room was in confusion
--drawers of the bureau pulled out, papers lying about
the floor. The window beside them was splintered where
it had been forced near the lock. Beside Captain Trevelyan
was a dark green baize tube about two inches in
diameter.
Warren sprang forward. He knelt down by the prostrate
figure.
One minute sufficed. He rose to his feet, his face pale.
"He's dead?" asked Burnaby.
The doctor nodded.
Then he turned to Graves.
"It's you to say what's to be done. I can do nothing
except examine the body and perhaps you'd rather I
didn't do that until the Inspector comes. I can tell you
the cause of death now. Fracture of the base of the skull.
3
Agatha Christie
And I think I can make a guess at the weapon."
He indicated the green baize tube.
"Trevelyan always had them along the bottom of the
door--to keep the draft out," said Burnaby.
His voice was hoarse.
"Yes--a very efficient form of sandbag."
"My God!"
"But this here--" the constable broke in, his wits
arriving at the point slowly. "You mean--this here is
murder."
The policeman stepped to the table on which stood a
telephone.
Major Burnaby approached the doctor.
"Have you any idea," he said, breathing hard, "how
long he's been dead?"
"About two hours, I should say, or possibly three.
That's a rough estimate."
Burnaby passed his tongue over dry lips.
"Would you say," he asked, "that he might have been
killed at five twenty-five?"
The doctor looked at him curiously.
"If I had to give a time definitely, that's just about the
time I would suggest."
"Oh! my God," said Burnaby.
Warren stared at him.
The Major felt his way blindly to a chair, collapsed on
to it and muttered to himself whilst a kind of staring
terror overspread his face.
"Five and twenty past five--Oh! my God, then it was true after all."
24
4. Inspector Narracott
I T was the morning after the tragedy, and two men
were standing in the little study of Hazehnoor.
Inspector Narraeott looked round him. A little frown
appeared upon his forehead.
"Ye-es," he said thoughtfully. "Yees."
Inspector Narra¢ott was a very efficient officer. He
had a quiet persistence, a logical mind and a keen attention
to detail which brought him success where many
another man might have failed.
He was a tall man with a quiet manner, rather far away
gray eyes, and a slow soft Devonshire voice.
Summoned from Exeter to take charge of the case, he
had arrived on the first train that morning. The roads
had been impassable for cars, even with chains, otherwise
he would have arrived the night before. He was
standing now in Captain Trevelyan's study having just
completed his examination of the room. With him was
Sergeant Pollock of the Exhampton police.
"Ye-es," said Inspector Narracott.
A ray of pale wintry sunshine came in through the
window. Outside was the snowy landscape. There was a
fence about a hundred yards from the window and beyond
it the steep ascending slope of the snow-covered
hillside.
Inspector Narracott bent once more over the body
which had been left for his inspection. An athletic man
Agatha Christie
himself, he recognized the athlete's type, the broad
shoulders, narrow flanks, and the good muscular devel-opment.
The head was small and well set on the shoul-ders,
and the pointed naval beard was carefully trimmed.
Captain Trevelyan's age, he had ascertained, was sixty,
but he looked not much more than fiftywone or two.
"It's a curious business," said Inspector Narracott.
"Ah!" said Sergeant Pollock.
The other turned on him.
"What is your view of it?"
"Well--" Sergeant Pollock scratched his head. He was
a cautious man, unwilling to advance further than nec-essary.
"Well," he said, "as I see it, sir, I should say that the
man came to the window, forced the lock, and started
rifling the room. Captain Trevelyan, I suppose, must
have been upstairs. Doubtless the burglar thought the
house was empty--"
"Where is Captain Trevelyan's bedroom situated?"
"Upstairs, sir. Over this room."
"At the present time of year it is dark at ibur o'clock.
If Captain Trevelyan was up in his bedroom the electric
light would have beeh on, the burglar would have seen
it as he approached this window."
"You mean he'd have waited."
"No man in his senses would break into a house with
a light in it. If anyone ibrced this window--he did it
because he thought the house wa
s empty."
Sergeant Pollock scratched his head.
"Seems a bit odd, I admit. But there it is."
"We'll let it pass for the moment. Go on."
6
Murder at Hazelmoor
"Well, suppose the Captain hears a noise downstairs.
He comes down to investigate. The burglar hears him
coming. He snatches up that bolster arrangement, gets
behind the door, and as the Captain enters the room
strikes him down from behind."
Inspector Narracott nodded.
"Yes, that's true enough. He was struck down when
he was facing the window. But all the same, Pollock, I
don't like it."
"No, sir?"
"No, as I say, I don't believe in houses that are broken
into at five o'clock in the afternoon."
"We-ell, he may have thought it a good opportunity--"
"It is not a question of opportunity--slipping in because
he found a window unlatched. It was deliberate
house-breaking--look at the confusion everywhere--what
would a burglar go for first? The pantry where the silver
is kept."
"That's true enough," admitted the Sergeant.
"And this confusion--this chaos," continued Narracott,
"these drawers pulled out and their contents scattered.
Pah! It's bunkum."
"Bunkum?"
"Look at the window, Sergeant. That window was not
locked and forced open! It was merely shut and then
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