The Mystery of the Downs

by John R. Watson and Arthur J. Rees

  CHAPTER XV

  "GOOD morning, sergeant."

  "Good morning, Miss Maynard. What can I do for you?"

  It was seldom that Sergeant Westaway was so obliging as to make avoluntary offer of his services, but then it was still more seldom thata young lady of Miss Maynard's social standing came to seek his adviceor assistance at the police station. As the daughter of a well-to-dolady, Miss Maynard was entitled to official respect.

  The sergeant had known Miss Maynard since her mother had first cometo live at Ashlingsea fifteen years ago. He had seen her grow up froma little girl to a young lady, but the years had increased the gulfbetween them. As a schoolgirl home from her holidays it was within thesergeant's official privilege to exchange a word or two when salutingher in the street. Her development into long dresses made anything morethan a bare salutation savour of familiarity, and the sergeant knew hisplace too well to be guilty of familiarity with those above him.

  With scrupulous care he had always uttered the name "Miss Maynard,"when saluting her in those days, so that she might recognize that hewas one of the first to admit the claims of adolescence to the honoursof maturity. Then came a time with the further lapse of years whenshe reached the threshold of womanhood, and to utter her name insalutation would have savoured of familiarity. So the salute became asilent one as indicative of Sergeant Westaway's recognition that hisvoice could not carry across the increased gulf between them.

  "I have something very important to tell you," said Miss Maynard, inreply to his intimation that the full extent of his official powerswere at her disposal.

  "Ah!"

  The sergeant realized that a matter of great personal importance toMiss Maynard might readily prove to be of minor consequence to him whenviewed through official glasses; but there was no hint of this in thecombination of politeness and obsequiousness with which he opened thedoor leading from the main room of the little police station to hisprivate room behind it.

  He placed a chair for her at the office table and then went round tohis own chair and stood beside it. There was a pause, due to the desireto be helped with questions, but Sergeant Westaway's social sense wasgreater than his sense of official importance, and he waited for her tobegin.

  "It is about the Cliff Farm murder," she said in a low voice.

  "Oh!" It was an exclamation in which astonishment and anticipation ofofficial delight were blended. "And do you--do you know anything aboutit?" he asked.

  "I am not sure what you will think of my story--whether there is anyclue in it. I must leave that for you to judge. But I feel that I oughtto tell you all that I do know."

  "Quite right," said the sergeant. His official manner, rising like atide, was submerging his social sense of inequality. "There is nothinglike telling the police the truth, the whole truth, and nothing butthe truth. It is always the best way." His social sense made a lastmanifestation before it threw up its arms and sank. "Not that I supposefor one moment, Miss Maynard, that you had anything to do with it--thatis to say, that you actually participated in the crime."

  He looked at her inquiringly and she shook her head, smiling sadly asshe did so.

  "But there is no reason why, after all, you might not know who did it,"said the sergeant in a coaxing voice which represented an appeal toher to do her best to justify his high hopes. "In some respects it isa mysterious crime, and although the police have their suspicions--andvery strong suspicions too--they are always glad to get reliableinformation, especially when it supports their suspicions."

  "And whom do you suspect?" she asked.

  Sergeant Westaway was taken aback at such a question. It was such anoutrageous attempt to penetrate the veil of official secrecy that hecould refrain from rebuking her only by excusing it on the ground ofher youth and inexperience.

  "At present I can say nothing," was his reply.

  She turned aside from his official manoeuvring and took up her ownstory:

  "What I came to tell you is that I was at Cliff Farm on the night thatpoor Mr. Lumsden was shot."

  "You were there when he was shot?" exclaimed the sergeant.

  "No; he was dead when I got there."

  "Did you hear the shot?"

  "No."

  "But you saw some one?"

  "I saw Mr. Marsland."

  "Ah!" The commonplace tone in which the word was uttered indicatedthat the sergeant was deeply disappointed with her story. "We know allabout his visit there. He came and told us--it was through him that wediscovered the body. He has been straightforwardness itself: he hastold us everything."

  "Did he tell you I was there?"

  "No; he has not mentioned your name. Perhaps he didn't see you."

  "We were in the house together, and I was with him when he wentupstairs and discovered the body."

  "He has said nothing about this," said the sergeant impressively. "Hisconduct is very strange in that respect."

  "I am afraid I am to blame for that," she said. "As he walked home withme from the farm on his way to the police station I asked him if hewould mind saying nothing about my presence at the house. I told himthat I was anxious to avoid all the worry and unpleasantness I shouldhave to put up with if it was publicly known that I had been there. Hereadily agreed not to mention my name. I thought at the time that itwas very kind of him, but in thinking it all over since I am convincedthat I did wrong. I have come to the conclusion that it was a veryextraordinary thing for him to agree to as he did, not knowing me--wehad never met before. I felt that the right thing to do was to cometo you and tell you all I know so that you can compare it with whatMr. Marsland has told you. In that way you will be able to make fullerinquiries, and to acquit him of any sinister motive in his kind offerto me to keep my name out of it."

  The sergeant nodded his head slowly. There was much to take in, and hewas not a rapid thinker.

  "Any sinister motive?" he repeated after a long pause.

  "Of course I don't wish to cast any suspicions on Mr. Marsland," shesaid looking at the police officer steadily. "But it has alreadyoccurred to you, Sergeant, that Mr. Marsland, in kindly keeping my nameout of it, had to depart from the truth in the story he told you abouthis presence at Cliff Farm, and that he may have thought it advisableto depart from the truth in some other particulars as well."

  The sergeant's mental process would not have carried him that farwithout assistance, but there was no conscious indication of assistancein the emphasis with which he said:

  "I see that."

  "Let me tell you exactly what happened so far as I am concerned," shewent on.

  "Yes, certainly." He sat down in his chair and vaguely seized his pen."I'll write it down, Miss Maynard, and get you to sign it. Don't gotoo fast for me; and it will be better for you if you take time--youwill be able to think it over as you go along. This promises to be mostimportant. Detective Gillett of Scotland Yard will be anxious to seeit. I am sorry he's not here now; he has been recalled to London, but Iexpect him down again to-morrow."

  "On Friday, the night of the storm, I left my house about dusk--thatwould be after five o'clock--with the intention of taking a walk,"she began. "I walked along the downs in the direction of Cliff Farm,intending to return along the sands from the cliff pathway. I was onthe downs when the storm began to gather. I thought of retracing mysteps, but the storm gathered so swiftly and blew so fiercely that Iwas compelled to seek shelter in the only house for miles around--CliffFarm.

  "The wind was blowing hard and big drops of rain were falling when Ireached the door. I knocked, but received no answer. Then I noticedthat the key was in the door. Owing to the darkness, which had come onrapidly with the storm, I had not seen it at first. The door had a Yalelock and the key turned very easily. I was wearing light gloves, andwhen I turned the key in the lock I noticed it was sticky. I looked atmy glove and saw a red stain--it was blood."

  "Ah!" interrupted Sergeant Westaway. "A red stain--blood? Just wait aminute while I catch up to you."

  "I was sligh
tly alarmed at that," she continued, after a pause; "but Ihad no suspicion that a cruel murder had been committed. In my alarm Itook the key out of the lock and closed the door. I felt safer with thedoor locked against any possible intruder. I went into the sitting-roomand sat down, after lighting a candle that I found on the hallstand.Then it occurred to me that Mr. Lumsden might have left the key in thedoor while he went to one of the outbuildings to do some work. Theblood might have got on it from a small cut on his hand."

  "What did you do with the key?" asked the Sergeant.

  "I brought it with me here." She opened her bag and handed a key to thepolice officer.

  Sergeant Westaway looked at it closely. Inside the hole made for thepurpose of placing the key on a ring he saw a slight stain of driedblood. He nodded to Miss Maynard and she continued her story.

  "I felt more at ease then, and when I heard a knock at the door I feltsure it was he--that he had seen the light of the candle through thewindow and knew that whoever had taken the key had entered the house.I opened the door, but it was not Mr. Lumsden I saw, but Mr. Marsland.He said something about wanting shelter from the storm--that his horsehad gone lame. He came inside and sat down. I told him that I, too,had sought shelter from the storm and that I supposed Mr. Lumsden, theowner of the house, was in one of the outbuildings attending to theanimals. I saw that he was watching me closely and I felt uneasy. ThenI saw him put his hand to the upper pocket of his waistcoat."

  "What was that for?" asked the sergeant.

  "I think he must have lost a pair of glasses and temporarily forgottenthat they were gone. He was not wearing glasses when I saw him but Ihave noticed since that he does wear them."

  "I've noticed the same thing," said the sergeant. "He was not wearingglasses the night he came here to report the discovery of Mr. Lumsden'sbody--I am sure of that."

  Miss Maynard, on resuming her narrative, told how Mr. Marsland andshe, hearing a crash in one of the rooms overhead, went upstairsto investigate and found the dead body of the victim sitting in anarm-chair. When she realized that a dreadful crime had been committedshe ran out of the house in terror. She waited in the path for Mr.Marsland and he was kind enough to escort her home. It was because shewas so unnerved by the tragedy that she had asked Mr. Marsland to keepher name out of it not to tell any one that she had taken shelter atthe farm. It was a dreadful experience and she wanted to try and forgetall about it. But now she realized that she had done wrong and that sheshould have come to the police station with Mr. Marsland and told whatshe knew.

  "That is quite right, Miss Maynard," said the sergeant, as he finishedwriting down her statement. "Does Mr. Marsland know that you have comehere to-day with the intention of making a statement?"

  "No; he does not, and for that reason I feel that I am not treating himfairly after he was so kind in consenting to keep my name out of it."

  The sergeant had but a limited view of moral ethics where theyconflicted with the interests of the police.

  "He should not have kept your name from me," he said. "But, apart fromwhat you have told me, have you any reason for suspecting that Mr.Marsland had anything to do with the murder of Frank Lumsden?"

  "That it was he who left the key in the door?"

  "Well--yes."

  "If that is the case, his object in leaving the house for a few minutesmight be to destroy traces of his guilt. But I saw nothing of asuspicious nature in his manner after I admitted him to the house."

  The sergeant was impressed with the closeness of her reasoning--itseemed to shed more light. Clearly she had given the matter the fullestconsideration before deciding to make a statement.

  She added with a slight laugh:

  "You cannot call his action in feeling for a missing pair of glassessuspicious?"

  "No, no," said the sergeant generously. "We can scarcely call thatsuspicious."

  "What I do regard as suspicious--or, at any rate, as wanting instraightforwardness--is the fact that Mr. Marsland did not tell methat he knew Mr. Lumsden in France. They were both in the London RifleBrigade--Mr. Marsland was a captain and Mr. Lumsden a private."

  "Where did you learn this, Miss Maynard?" was the excited question."Are you sure?"

  "Hasn't he told the police?" she asked in a tone of astonishment. "Thenperhaps it is not true."

  "Where did you hear it?"

  "In Staveley. I was talking to a wounded officer there on thefront--Mr. Blake. He knew Mr. Marsland as Captain Marsland and he knewMr. Lumsden as well. I think he said poor Mr. Lumsden had been CaptainMarsland's orderly for a time."

  "I must look into this," said Sergeant Westaway.

  "Unfortunately Mr. Blake has returned to the front. He left Staveleyyesterday."

  "No matter. There are other ways of getting at the truth, Miss Maynard.As I said, Detective Gillett will be down here to-morrow and I'll showhim your statement. He will probably want to interview you himself andin that case I'll send for you. But don't you be alarmed--he's a nicegentlemanly young fellow and knows how to treat a lady."

  He was about to bow her out of the station when he suddenly rememberedthat she had not signed her statement.

  "Would you please read through this and sign it?" he asked. "A veryimportant statement--clear and concise. I feel I must congratulate youabout it, Miss Maynard."

  She read through the sergeant's summary of her narrative, but wasunable to congratulate him on the way in which he had done his work.She felt that the statement she and her lover had compiled, to guideher in her narrative to the police, was a far more comprehensivedocument.