“Yes. Has he been recaptured?”
“Not yet, I believe. Ah, well, poor fellow, he will no doubt be recaptured soon enough. I believe I am right in saying that no one has escaped successfully from Princetown for the last twenty years.”
“Which direction is Princetown?”
Mr. Rycroft stretched out his arm and pointed southwards over the moor.
“It lies over there, about twelve miles as the crow flies over unbroken moorland. It’s sixteen miles by road.”
Emily gave a faint shiver. The idea of a desperate hunted man impressed her powerfully. Mr. Rycroft was watching her and gave a little nod.
“Yes,” he said. “I feel the same myself. It’s curious how one’s instincts rebel at the thought of a man being hunted down, and yet, these men at Princetown are all dangerous and violent criminals, the kind of men whom probably you and I would do our utmost to put there in the first place.”
He gave a little apologetic laugh.
“You must forgive me, Miss Trefusis, I am deeply interested in the study of crime. A fascinating study. Ornithology and criminology are my two subjects.” He paused and then went on:
“That’s the reason why, if you will allow me to do so, I should like to associate myself with you in this matter. To study a crime at firsthand has long been an unrealized dream of mine. Will you place your confidence in me, Miss Trefusis, and allow me to place my experience at your disposal? I have read and studied this subject deeply.”
Emily was silent for a minute. She was congratulating herself on the way events were playing into her hand. Here was firsthand knowledge being offered her of life as it had been lived at Sittaford. “Angle of attack,” Emily repeated the phrase that had crept into her mind so short a time before. She had had Major Burnaby’s angle—matter of fact—simple—direct. Taking cognizance of facts and completely oblivious of subtleties. Now, she was being offered another angle which she suspected might open up a very different field of vision. This little, shrivelled, dried-up gentleman had read and studied deeply, was well versed in human nature, had that devouring interested curiosity in life displayed by the man of reflection as opposed to the man of action.
“Please help me,” she said simply. “I am so very worried and unhappy.”
“You must be, my dear, you must be. Now, as I understand the position, Trevelyan’s eldest nephew has been arrested or detained—the evidence against him being of a somewhat simple and obvious nature. I, of course, have an open mind. You must allow me that.”
“Of course,” said Emily. “Why should you believe in his innocence when you know nothing about him?”
“Most reasonable,” said Mr. Rycroft. “Really, Miss Trefusis, you yourself are a most interesting study. By the way, your name—is it Cornish like our poor friend Trevelyan?”
“Yes,” said Emily. “My father was Cornish, my mother was Scottish.”
“Ah!” said Mr. Rycroft, “very interesting. Now to approach our little problem. On the one hand we assume that young Jim—the name is Jim, is it not? We assume that young Jim had a pressing need of money, that he came down to see his uncle, that he asked for money, that his uncle refused, that in a moment of passion he picked up a sandbag that was lying at the door and that he hit his uncle over the head. The crime was unpremeditated—was in fact a foolish irrational affair most deplorably conducted. Now, all that may be so; on the other hand he may have parted with his uncle in anger and some other person may have stepped in shortly afterwards and committed the crime. That is what you believe—and to put it a little differently, that is what I hope. I do not want your fiancé to have committed the crime, for from my point of view it is so uninteresting that he should have done so. I am therefore backing the other horse. The crime was committed by someone else. We will assume that and go at once to a most important point. Was that someone else aware of the quarrel that had just taken place? Did that quarrel, in fact, actually precipitate the murder? You see my point? Someone is meditating doing away with Captain Trevelyan and seized this opportunity, realizing that suspicion is bound to fall on young Jim.”
Emily considered the matter from this angle.
“In that case,” she said slowly—
Mr. Rycroft took the words out of her mouth.
“In that case,” he said briskly, “the murderer would have to be a person in close association with Captain Trevelyan. He would have to be domiciled in Exhampton. In all probability he would have to be in the house, either during or after the quarrel. And since we are not in a court of law and can bandy about names freely, the name of the servant, Evans, leaps to our minds as a person who could satisfy our conditions. A man who quite possibly might have been in the house, have overheard the quarrel and seized the opportunity. Our next point is to discover whether Evans benefits in any way from his master’s death.”
“I believe he gets a small legacy,” said Emily.
“That may or may not constitute a sufficient motive. We shall have to discover whether or not Evans had a pressing need of money. We must also consider Mrs. Evans—there is a Mrs. Evans of recent date, I understand. If you had studied criminology, Miss Trefusis, you would realize the curious effect caused by inbreeding, especially in country districts. There are at least four young women in Broadmoor, pleasant in manner, but with that curious kink in their dispositions that human life is of little or no account to them. No—we must not leave Mrs. Evans out of account.”
“What do you think about this table-turning business, Mr. Rycroft?”
“Now, that is very strange. Most strange. I confess, Miss Trefusis, that I am powerfully impressed by it. I am, as perhaps you may have heard, a believer in psychic things. To a certain degree I am a believer in spiritualism. I have already written out a full account and sent it up to the Society of Psychical Research. A well-authenticated and amazing case. Five people present, none of whom could have the least idea or suspicion that Captain Trevelyan was murdered.”
“You don’t think—”
Emily stopped. It was not so easy to suggest her own idea to Mr. Rycroft that one of the five people might have guilty foreknowledge, as he himself had been one of them. Not that she suspected for a moment that there was anything whatever to connect Mr. Rycroft with the tragedy. Still she felt that the suggestion might not be wholly tactful. She pursued her object in a more roundabout manner.
“It all interested me very much, Mr. Rycroft; it is, as you say, an amazing occurrence. You don’t think that any of the people present, with the exception of yourself of course, were in any way psychic?”
“My dear young lady, I myself am not psychic. I have no powers in that direction. I am only a very deeply interested observer.”
“What about this Mr. Garfield?”
“A nice lad,” said Mr. Rycroft, “but not remarkable in any way.”
“Well off, I suppose,” said Emily.
“Stony broke, I believe,” said Mr. Rycroft. “I hope I am using that idiom correctly. He comes down here to dance attendance on an aunt, from whom he has what I call ‘expectations.’ Miss Percehouse is a very sharp lady and I think she knows what these attentions are worth. But as she has a sardonic form of humour of her own she keeps him dancing.”
“I should like to meet her,” said Emily.
“Yes, you must certainly meet her. She will no doubt insist on meeting you. Curiosity—alas, my dear Miss Trefusis—curiosity.”
“Tell me about the Willetts,” said Emily.
“Charming,” said Mr. Rycroft, “quite charming. Colonial, of course. No real poise, if you understand me. A little too lavish in their hospitality. Everything a shade on the ornate side. Miss Violet is a charming girl.”
“A funny place to come for the winter,” said Emily.
“Yes, very odd, is it not? But after all it is only logical. We ourselves living in this country long for the sunshine, hot climates, waving palm trees. People who live in Australia or South Africa are enchanted with the idea of an old-fashioned Christmas wit
h snow and ice.”
“I wonder which of them,” said Emily to herself, “told him that.”
She reflected that it was not necessary to bury yourself in a moorland village in order to obtain an old-fashioned Christmas with snow and ice. Clearly, Mr. Rycroft did not see anything suspicious in the Willetts’ choice of a winter resort. But that, she reflected, was perhaps natural in one who was an ornithologist and a criminologist. Sittaford clearly appeared an ideal residence to Mr. Rycroft, and he could not conceive of it as an unsuitable environment to someone else.
They had been slowly descending the slope of the hillside and were now wending their way down the lane.
“Who lives in that cottage?” asked Emily abruptly.
“Captain Wyatt—he is an invalid. Rather unsociable I fear.”
“Was he a friend of Captain Trevelyan’s?”
“Not an intimate friend in any way. Trevelyan merely made a formal visit to him every now and then. As a matter of fact Wyatt doesn’t encourage visitors. A surly man.”
Emily was silent. She was reviewing the possibility of how she herself might become a visitor. She had no intention of allowing any angle of attack to remain unexplored.
She suddenly remembered the hitherto unmentioned member of the séance.
“What about Mr. Duke?” she asked brightly.
“What about him?”
“Well, who is he?”
“Well,” said Mr. Rycroft slowly, “that is what nobody knows.”
“How extraordinary,” said Emily.
“As a matter of fact,” said Mr. Rycroft, “it isn’t. You see, Duke is such an entirely unmysterious individual. I should imagine that the only mystery about him was his social origin. Not—not quite, if you understand me. But a very solid good fellow,” he hastened to add.
Emily was silent.
“This is my cottage,” said Mr. Rycroft pausing, “perhaps you will do me the honour of coming in and inspecting it.”
“I should like to,” said Emily.
They went up the small path and entered the cottage. The interior was charming. Bookcases lined the walls.
Emily went from one to the other glancing curiously at the titles of the books. One section dealt with occult phenomena, another with modern detective fiction, but by far the greater part of the bookcase was given up to criminology and to the world’s famous trials. Books on ornithology held a comparatively small portion.
“I think, it’s all delightful,” said Emily. “I must get back now. I expect Mr. Enderby will be up and waiting for me. As a matter of fact I haven’t had breakfast yet. We told Mrs. Curtis half past nine, and I see it’s ten o’clock. I shall be dreadfully late—that’s because you’ve been so interesting—and so very helpful.”
“Anything I can do,” burbled Mr. Rycroft as Emily turned a bewitching glance on him. “You can count on me. We are collaborators.”
Emily gave him her hand and squeezed his warmly.
“It’s so wonderful,” she said, using the phrase that in the course of her short life she had found so effectual, “to feel that there’s someone on whom one can really rely.”
Seventeen
MISS PERCEHOUSE
Emily returned to find eggs and bacon, and Charles, waiting for her.
Mrs. Curtis was still agog with excitement over the escape of the convict.
“Two years it is since last one escaped,” she said, “and three days it was before they found him. Near to Moretonhampstead he was.”
“Do you think he’ll come this way?” asked Charles.
Local knowledge vetoed this suggestion.
“They never comes this way, all bare moorland it is and only small towns when you do come off the moor. He’ll make for Plymouth, that’s the most likely. But they’ll catch him long before that.”
“You could find a good hiding place among these rocks on the other side of the Tor,” said Emily.
“You’re right, Miss, and there is a hiding place there, the Pixie’s Cave they call it. As narrow an opening between two rocks as you could find, but it widens out inside. They say one of King Charles’s men hid there once for a fortnight with a serving maid from a farm bringing him food.”
“I must take a look at that Pixie’s Cave,” said Charles.
“You’ll be surprised how hard it is to find, sir. Many a picnic party in summer looks for it the whole afternoon and doesn’t find it, but if you do find it be sure you leave a pin inside it for luck.”
“I wonder,” said Charles when breakfast was over and he and Emily had strolled out into the small bit of garden, “if I ought to go off to Princetown? Amazing how things pile up once you have a bit of luck. Here I am—I start with a simple football competition prize, and before I know where I am I run straight into an escaped convict and a murderer. Marvellous!”
“What about this photographing of Major Burnaby’s cottage?”
Charles looked up at the sky.
“H’m,” he said. “I think I shall say the weather is wrong. I have got to hang on to my raison d’étre of being in Sittaford as long as possible, and it’s coming over misty. Er—I hope you don’t mind, I have just posted off an interview with you?”
“Oh! that’s all right,” said Emily mechanically. “What have you made me say?”
“Oh, the usual sort of things people like to hear,” said Mr. Enderby. “Our special representative records his interview with Miss Emily Trefusis, the fiancée of Mr. James Pearson who has been arrested by the police and charged with the murder of Captain Trevelyan—Then my impression of you as a high-spirited, beautiful girl.”
“Thank you,” said Emily.
“Shingled,” went on Charles.
“What do you mean by shingled?”
“You are,” said Charles.
“Well, of course I am,” said Emily. “But why mention it?”
“Women readers always like to know,” said Charles Enderby. “It was a splendid interview. You’ve no idea what fine womanly touching things you said about standing by your man, no matter if the whole world was against him.”
“Did I really say that?” said Emily wincing slightly.
“Do you mind?” said Mr. Enderby anxiously.
“Oh! no,” said Emily. “Enjoy yourself, darling.” Mr. Enderby looked slightly taken aback.
“It’s all right,” said Emily. “That’s a quotation. I had it on my bib when I was small—my Sunday bib. The weekday one had ‘Don’t be a glutton’ on it.”
“Oh! I see. I put in a very good bit about Captain Trevelyan’s sea career and just a hint at foreign idols looted and a possibility of a strange priest’s revenge—only a hint you know.”
“Well, you seem to have done your day’s good deed,” said Emily.
“What have you been up to? You were up early enough, heaven knows.”
Emily described her meeting with Mr. Rycroft.
She broke off suddenly and Enderby, glancing over his shoulder and following the direction of her eyes, became aware of a pink, healthy-looking young man leaning over the gate and making various apologetic noises to attract attention.
“I say,” said the young man, “frightfully sorry to butt in and all that. I mean, it is awfully awkward, but my aunt sent me along.”
Emily and Charles both said, “Oh,” in an inquiring tone, not being much the wiser for the explanation.
“Yes,” said the young man. “To tell the truth my aunt’s rather a Tartar. What she says goes, if you know what I mean. Of course, I think it’s frightfully bad form coming along at a time like this, but if you knew my aunt—and if you do as she wants, you will know her in a few minutes—”
“Is your aunt Miss Percehouse?” broke in Emily.
“That’s right,” said the young man much relieved. “So you know all about her? Old Mother Curtis has been talking, I suppose. She can wag a tongue, can’t she? Not that she’s a bad sort, mind you. Well, the fact is, my aunt said she wanted to see you, and I was to come along and
tell you so. Compliments, and all that, and would it be troubling you too much—she was an invalid and quite unable to get out and it would be a great kindness—well, you know the sort of thing. I needn’t say it all. It’s curiosity really, of course, and if you say you’ve got a headache, or have got letters to write, it will be quite all right and you needn’t bother.”
“Oh, but I should like to bother,” said Emily. “I’ll come with you at once. Mr. Enderby has got to go along and see Major Burnaby.”
“Have I?” said Enderby in a low voice.
“You have,” said Emily firmly.
She dismissed him with a brief nod and joined her new friend in the road.
“I suppose you’re Mr. Garfield,” she said.
“That’s right. I ought to have told you.”
“Oh, well,” said Emily, “it wasn’t very difficult to guess.”
“Splendid of you coming along like this,” said Mr. Garfield. “Lots of girls would have been awfully offended. But you know what old ladies are.”
“You don’t live down here, do you, Mr. Garfield?”
“You bet your life I don’t.” said Ronnie Garfield with fervour. “Did you ever see such a godforsaken spot? Not so much as the Pictures to go to. I wonder someone doesn’t commit a murder to—”
He paused, appalled by what he had said.
“I say, I am sorry. I am the most unlucky devil that ever lived. Always coming out with the wrong thing. I never meant it for a moment.”
“I’m sure you didn’t,” said Emily soothingly.
“Here we are,” said Mr. Garfield. He pushed open a gate, and Emily passed through and went up the path leading to a small cottage identical with the rest. In the living room giving on the garden was a couch, and on it was lying an elderly lady with a thin wrinkled face and with one of the sharpest and most interrogative noses that Emily had ever seen. She raised herself on an elbow with a little difficulty.
“So you’ve brought her,” she said. “Very kind of you, my dear, to come along to see an old woman. But you know what it is when you are an invalid. You must have a finger in every pie going and if you can’t go to the pie, then the pie has got to come to you. And you needn’t think it’s all curiosity—it’s more than that. Ronnie, go out and paint the garden furniture. In the shed at the end of the garden. Two basket chairs and a bench. You’ll find the paint there all ready.”
The Sittaford Mystery Page 11