To elucidate the position, I have been at pains to draw a rough map of this part of the Minton Deeps land, marking the positions supposed to have been occupied (not those which were afterwards proved to have been occupied) at the time when the alleged fatal second shot was fired.1 It will be seen that, including the house where Ethel was, and excluding John, a rough semicircle is shown round the scene of the tragedy, the diameter of which was not far short of half a mile. The spot I have indicated as John’s position is that given by him as the place where he discharged his shotgun in the air.
During the afternoon I may remark briefly that I occupied myself, in an attempt to check profitless brooding and the formation of impossible plans for vindicating myself, with writing the beginning of this manuscript. I found it an admirable mental release from the strain of my situation to reconstruct with impartial exactness the precise events which had led to the shooting of Eric Scott-Davies.
And I might state here that if I have been successful in this attempt, the reader should now, at this stage in the story, be fully aware whose finger pulled the fatal trigger. Such at any rate is the conclusion which I, reading over what I have already written, see rising from the circumstances as I have described them. But I must in fairness admit that I am writing now at some considerable time after the event, and with full knowledge of the identity of Scott-Davies’ executioner (I will not use the ugly word ‘murderer’ in such a worthy case), and that perhaps may have clarified my vision.
Except for a short interval for tea, from which I excused myself as soon as possible, I continued to work on my manuscript without pause until it was time to dress for dinner, rigorously keeping my thoughts from dwelling upon anything but the matter immediately in hand.
John had not appeared at tea, being apparently still busy with the superintendent, so that I had not seen him since our talk together after luncheon. Naturally nothing was said during dinner upon the topic which was filling my mind, but after the women had left us De Ravel, as on the previous evening, excused himself with a quite unnecessarily black glance at me and I was able to learn as much as John knew, of the further progress of the affair.
It was not reassuring. In spite of John’s efforts, the police, it seemed, had now learned all about my supposed interest in Elsa, and were disposed to take it very seriously; John had been questioned on it, and though he had done his best to pooh-pooh the notion that my intentions had ever been earnest, the superintendent had shaken his head weightily. The information had come from the maids, whom he had questioned that morning. One does not usually realize how very well posted the kitchen always is in the affairs of the drawing room.
Worse still, the superintendent had ferreted out the incident of the swimming pool. From the maids again he had discovered that my clothes had been wet that night and I had had to change; from Elsa Verity of all people he had extracted the story of what had actually happened. John’s manner became more serious than ever as he hinted that the superintendent had fastened gladly on this as a possible motive for my making away with Eric.
As to this interview with Elsa, Ethel had already mentioned at dinner that it had taken place, though I did not attach much importance to it then. John now informed me that the superintendent had insisted on obtaining it, quite politely but with the utmost firmness, or else a doctor’s certificate to the effect that Miss Verity was medically unable to grant it. That this was not the case, although she was keeping the girl in bed, Ethel had known quite well, and had therefore been forced to allow it; though she had insisted on being present during the interview, which of course had to take place in Elsa’s bedroom. This the superintendent had willingly permitted, with the result that poor Ethel had had to sit silently by and listen to statements highly damaging to myself issuing from the unwitting girl’s lips. For after all I could not blame the poor child for falling into the superintendent’s specious traps; nor, ignorant that I was under suspicion, could she possibly have realized the purport of her words as she told blushingly of the rivalry of Eric and myself for her company that evening and its sequel.
‘You think, then,’ I asked at length, ‘that my position is considerably worsened as a result of the police investigations today?’
‘Damn it,’ said John unhappily, ‘I’m sure of it. It must be. Look here, Cyril, don’t be a quixotic fool. Wire for your solicitor tomorrow.’
But I shook my head. That I still would not do. Not indeed that I had the same qualms about the De Ravels’ connection with Eric coming out; for though I remained just as anxious that the proof of my own innocence should not depend on the official proof of someone else’s guilt, that no longer held in the case of the De Ravels with their mutual alibi. Indeed I should not have objected now to that story becoming known (after all, consideration for other people’s moral reputations must give way to consideration for one’s own life), if only that the police might realize that there had been other motives in existence for Eric Scott-Davies’ death compared with which my puny ones were as red ink to claret. But somehow or other my own solicitor…no! I could not get rid of the feeling that he might discover not merely what I wanted discovered (which was nothing more than convincing proof that I at any rate had not fired that second mysterious shot which the police had now arbitrarily decided had killed Eric Scott-Davies) but a great deal more as well; and that might turn out to be almost more awkward than before.
In this connection one thing which I learned from John seemed to show that the superintendent was at least keeping his mind open for other possibilities than my own guilt. He had today displayed a much greater interest in the plot of our little play, as outlined by Mrs de Ravel, writing it laboriously down, questioning John on its whys and wherefores, and generally showing that he considered it well worth investigation.
‘The man isn’t a fool,’ John said as he told me this. ‘I’m quite certain he smells a rat there.’
‘You mean he guesses the situation wasn’t quite so imaginary as one might have supposed?’
‘Exactly. I had to tell him the details, of course, because he could easily check them up elsewhere; but naturally I didn’t let on that there was a hint of truth underlying any of it. But as I say, I’m sure he wasn’t convinced.’
‘Did you tell him that it was invented by Mrs de Ravel?’
‘No,’ said John slowly, ‘I didn’t. I thought it wiser not. I didn’t say it wasn’t, of course; I just skated round the point. But I did give him a very definite impression that I made it all up myself – and of course I was responsible for a good deal of it. Perhaps you’d better back me up there, Cyril, if you get a chance.’
‘Very well,’ I agreed, though I could not quite see the force of the subterfuge.
It was uncomfortable in the circumstances to join the others in the drawing room, but not to have done so would have looked odd. Ethel of course treated me with her normal serene kindness, and so did John; but both the De Ravels looked as if they resented my presence, as I have no doubt they did, and Armorel looked positively frightened. I stayed for a wretched half an hour, and then excused myself to return to my manuscript, feeling extremely depressed and worn out.
I had thrown off my coat for greater comfort and been working for perhaps twenty minutes when there was a light tap on my door and immediately following it Armorel slipped into the room. I sprang up in some confusion, hastily putting on my coat, but Armorel seemed far too agitated to remark my shirt-sleeves.
‘Pinkie,’ she said urgently, ‘I must talk to you. Come along to my room.’
‘Really, Armorel,’ I had to protest, ‘that would hardly be – h’m – wise, would it? If you will go downstairs, I will follow in a moment or two, and we could take a turn out of doors.’
Armorel stared at me in a rather disconcerting way. ‘I simply can’t make you out, Pinkie. Are you worrying about the proprieties? Good heavens, I really believe you are. Well, you beat me, that’s all. How you can shoot a man one minute, and make a fuss the next about – ’
‘Armorel!’
‘Anyhow, we can’t take a turn out of doors,’ she hurried on. ‘It isn’t safe. I’ve just looked out, and there’s a very obvious detective hanging about in the lane. Of course he’d follow us and hear every word; it’s nearly dark already. And it isn’t any safer in here. I feel as if the whole house is full of them, in every cupboard and under every bed; one of them would have his ear glued to the keyhole in two minutes. My room’s the only safe place; they won’t suspect you’re there. Listen – I’ll go along now, and you follow in about two minutes. Creep down the passage as quietly as you can, and for heaven’s sake don’t let anyone see you. Oh, I don’t mean any of the others,’ she added impatiently, seeing the expression on my face. They don’t matter. I mean a detective.’
‘But, my dear girl, really I don’t think it advisable, for your own sake, that – ’
‘Oh, come on! In two minutes.’ And before I could protest further she had gone.
I really did not know what to do.
In the end I complied with her wish and, feeling uncomfortably furtive, tiptoed along the passage to knock on her door.
It was whisked open in front of me. ‘Come in, you idiot!’ muttered this surprising young woman. ‘Don’t stand there banging and telling every policeman within miles where you are.’ And catching my arm, she literally jerked me over the threshold. ‘There’s a chair over there.’
I sat down in the one she indicated, at the foot of the low bed. Armorel locked the door, hung a garment of some kind over the handle, and then seated herself on the bed close to me.
‘Pinkie – what are you going to do?’
‘Do?’ I could only echo feebly. ‘How do you mean? I don’t think I intend to “do” anything.’
She stared at me for a moment, her small, oval face intensely serious beneath its cap of shining dark hair. With a curiously detached interest I noticed tiny pin-points of moisture on her upper lip.
‘Look here, Pinkie,’ she said slowly, ‘we’ve got to have this out. Don’t fence with me. I know you shot Eric.’
‘The devil you do!’ I exclaimed involuntarily, surprised for the first time in my life into bad language in the presence of a woman.
‘And if you’re really not in love with Elsa, it must have been because of what I said to you in the morning. The De Ravel business wouldn’t mean anything to you. Do you swear you’re not in love with Elsa, Pinkie? No, don’t look so prunes-and-prisms; answer me: Do you swear that?’
‘I can certainly give you my word of honour that my feelings towards Miss Verity are not of the nature you indicate,’ I replied, striving after my fleeting dignity. To tell the truth I had never been in a feminine sleeping chamber before, and the litter of articles all round, from which I felt it only decent to keep my eyes averted, indicated that Armorel certainly did not possess the foible of orderliness in domestic details. My embarrassment was increased by the fact that if I wished to preserve the decencies thus, there was hardly any place in the room on which I could rest my eyes. ‘I have indeed already given you my word, I thought, to that effect. But that does not imply – ’
‘Then it was because of what I said,’ Armorel interrupted with a little sigh, and continued to look at me with disconcerting intentness.
I shrugged my shoulders in silence. There was no use in making undignified denials. But my feeling of uneasiness deepened. What could be in her mind?
‘I’m not going to be a hypocrite and pretend I’m sorry you did it,’ Armorel continued, ‘except for your own sake, Pinkie. It was dear and sweet of you, just as it’s dear and sweet of you to pretend now that you didn’t, to save my feelings. But why you ever thought I was worth it, I can’t imagine. I’m not. But you’ve given me Stukeleigh – or rather, the privilege of looking after Stukeleigh, and it’s up to me…’
Her voice went on, and in a way I heard what she said. But I suppose the recent strain had been too great for my mind, for I found my attention wandering uncontrollably and the most odd thoughts passing through my brain. It was perhaps one of the most remarkable moments of my life, and yet I found that instead of the closest concentration on the matter in hand my attention to Armorel’s words was interspersed with the most highly irrelevant reflections:
‘…get you out of this ghastly mess…’ What an odd word to choose in connection with shooting her cousin, ‘sweet’; ‘a sweet murder’; how very Armorel-like! ‘…absolutely bound to suspect you…’ Why do they wear such things? ‘…tumble to it sooner or later…’ Quite impractical and no doubt ridiculously expensive. ‘…simply terrified they may get it out of me…’ But pretty; oh, yes, really quite astonishingly pretty. ‘…of course they’d realize at once…’ Lemon-yellow, I suppose. ‘…anything to stop that, simply anything…’ No, I like the mauve ones better. Is it mauve? ‘… can’t give evidence against her husband…’ Impractical, yes; but charmingly so. It isn’t my idea of a… ‘…so naturally I’m game…’ Those are the stockings she wore last night, with the green dress; I recognize them distinctly; how remarkably different they look off!
‘So would you, Pinkie?’ Armorel was saying urgently.
I turned to her with a start. ‘I beg your pardon, Armorel. Would I what?’
‘Why, like to marry me, of course!’
I fear I gaped at her. ‘Good gracious me, what did you say?’
‘Because a wife can’t be called upon to give evidence against – Pinkie! Haven’t you heard a word of what I’ve been saying?’
‘Yes, yes,’ I said hastily, trying to reorient my ideas to the remarkable fact that I must have been receiving a proposal of marriage. ‘Yes, of course, my dear girl. But really…’
I managed somehow to reassure her.
The line I took, in all seriousness to match her own, was that if we married the situation would actually be worse for me than before, because the police would then immediately say that I had killed Eric in order to become master of Stukeleigh. Fortunately Armorel quite saw the point, and I was able to escape back to my room.
It was with some humility that I locked myself in alone; humility over the totally erroneous judgment I had once passed upon the dear girl I had just left. I had pronounced her empty-headed, flighty, unbalanced, insincere, and heaven knows what; and now, under the impression that I had killed a man on her behalf, she had been offering quite sincerely to requite me by sharing her life with me, solely so that she could not be put into the witness box against me. And to testify to what? Apparently just to the conversation we had had that morning, for there was nothing else to which she could testify. It was truly a great-hearted offer.
I did not feel like writing any more that night. Instead I put into operation a plan I had formed. I did not wish, now that my possessions were under the scrutiny of the police, to leave my manuscript in my bedroom, for any Constable Tom, Dick, or Harry to pry into. I intended to conceal it, and I thought I knew by what means.
Putting the papers into a stout flat waterproof metal box, which I often took into the country for the purpose of housing specimens of rare mosses (another hobby of mine), I slipped carefully out of the house and made my way in the darkness to the Moorland Field. There I made for a certain gorse bush which I had already noticed by day as having a hollow among its roots, and, having paused a moment or two to make sure whether I had been followed or not, deposited my box in the cavity.
And so (to quote a phrase from the diary of Samuel Pepys) to bed, if not in my case to sleep.
So far my nerves, unaccustomed though they were to a strain of this nature, had answered to the demands I had put upon them. The next morning they broke.
Questioned for a full two hours by the superintendent, who did not trouble to disguise his hostile intentions, about all the points of suspicion which he had marked against me, about my quarrel with Scott-Davies, about Miss Verity, about my movements in the wood when that fateful second shot was fired, I lost my head; my answers were so confused and contradictory that it was
a marvel to me that I was not arrested on the spot.
Released at last I made my way from the house in something (I admit it freely) not unlike panic. I could no longer carry the burden alone; I must have some independent adviser to work for me as the police were working against me.
I still shrank from sending for my solicitor, but a new idea had presented itself. I remembered a man who had been in my house at Fernhurst, who had in fact been of the same term as myself, so that although we had drifted apart as we grew larger, as small boys we had necessarily been thrown much together. This man, I had gathered from reports in the newspapers, had recently obtained some success in unravelling the complications of crimes which had baffled even Scotland Yard. I had not really credited it at the time of reading, for I remembered him as a very ordinary – and indeed somewhat offensive! – small boy, but I was now ready to clutch at any suggestion of help that was offered.
Presuming on our very early acquaintance, I sent a telegram to Roger Sheringham intimating that I was in a perilous position and asking urgently for his aid.
1 See frontispiece.
chapter nine
Sheringham’s reply came with admirable promptitude. He would arrive that same evening. I was surprised and agreeably impressed. Sheringham must have changed for the better. I did not remember him as particularly ready to put himself out on anyone else’s behalf.
Within half an hour came a second telegram, announcing his train and the time of its arrival in Budeford, with a request to be met there.
The Second Shot Page 13