The Third Mystery

by James Holding

  “What have we here?” asked the Scotland Yard man genially.

  Marsland held out his hand with the comb resting in it.

  “A woman in the case,” commented Inspector Payne. “That ought to help to simplify matters.”

  Marsland bit his lips at the thought of how he had been false to his promise to Miss Maynard. He had kept her name out of the discovery of the crime, but he had unwittingly directed attention to the fact that a woman had only recently been in that room.

  The comb was handed to Crewe for examination. It was about three inches long and was slightly convex in shape. On the outside was a thin strip of gold mounting. Crewe handed the comb back.

  “You sat in this room before going upstairs, Marsland?” he asked, turning to Sir George’s nephew.

  “Yes; I was here about a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes.”

  “Was the window open when you came in? Did you close it?”

  “I did not close it, but it must have been closed, as otherwise I would have noticed it open. It was raining and blowing hard while I was here.” Marsland thought to himself that any information he could give about the window was useless in view of the fact that Miss Maynard had been in the room some time before he arrived.

  “Was this the room in which you found the lamp that you took upstairs?” continued Crewe.

  “Yes.”

  “I think you told me that there was no light in the house when you entered?”

  “The place was in darkness. I found a candlestick on the hallstand. I lit that first and after coming in here I lit the lamp.” He had decided to adhere in his statements to what Miss Maynard had told him she had done before he arrived.

  “Did you notice when you lit the lamp whether the lamp chimney was hot, warm, or quite cold?” asked Crewe.

  “I cannot be certain. I think it was cold, or otherwise I should have noticed.”

  “You lit the lamp before you heard the crash which startled you?”

  “Yes. I lit it a few moments after I came into the room.”

  “Any foot-marks outside the window?” said Inspector Payne, thrusting his head out of the open window. “Yes, there they are, quite plainly, in the ground. Made by heavy hobnailed boots. We must get plaster impressions of those, Gillett. They are an important clue.”

  “I notice, inspector,” said Crewe, “that there are no marks of any kind on the wall-paper beneath the window. One would expect that a man getting in through this window would touch the wall-paper with one foot while he was getting through the window, and as it was a wet night there ought to be some mark on it.”

  “Not necessarily,” replied the inspector. “He may have jumped to the floor without touching the wall-paper.”

  “But there do not seem to be any impressions inside the house of these heavy nailed boots,” returned Crewe. “Those impressions beneath the window show that they were made when the ground was soft from the rain. Wet muddy boots with nails in the soles ought to leave some traces on the carpet of this room and on the staircase.”

  “And what about those marks we saw on the staircase? They show that some one had been over the staircase with a wet rag.”

  “To wipe out the traces of those boots?” asked Crewe.

  “Why not?”

  “Why did the person wearing those boots walk on the uncarpeted part of the stairs near the wall instead of the carpeted part?”

  “Because he knew that it would be easier for him to remove the traces of his footprints from the wood than from the carpet.”

  Crewe smiled at the ingenuity displayed by the inspector.

  “One more doubt, inspector,” he said. “Why did the man who wore those boots take such care to remove the traces of footprints inside the house and show so much indifference to the traces he left outside?”

  “Because he thought the rain would wash out the footprints outside. And so it would have done if it had rained until morning. Let us go outside and have a good look at them.”

  They went out by the front door and made their way to the window, taking care to keep clear of the footprints.

  “There you are, Mr. Crewe,” said Inspector Payne. “There is evidence that the man got in through the window.” He pointed to a spot beneath the window where a small piece of mortar between the brickwork had been broken off about fifteen inches above the ground. “And look at those parallel scratches on the mortar. It looks to me as if they were made by the nails in a boot.”

  “Very true,” assented Crewe, examining the marks closely.

  “Now let us follow the footsteps to see where they start from,” continued Inspector Payne.

  It was no difficult matter to follow the marks of the heavy boots. In the soft soil, which had formerly been part of a flower-bed, they were quite distinct. Even on the grass beyond the flower-bed the impressions were visible, though not so distinctly. Eventually they reached the gravel-walk which skirted the front of the house, and here the traces were lost.

  “I should say that the boots which made these marks are the ordinary heavy type worn by farm-hands and fishermen in this locality,” said Crewe.

  “No doubt,” answered Inspector Payne. “But, though there are some hundreds of men in this locality who wear the same type of boot, the number of pairs of boots absolutely the same are small. That is particularly the case with these heavy nailed boots—the positions of some of the nails vary. A cast of three or four of the best of these impressions will narrow down the circle of our investigations. What do you say, Gillett?”

  “It looks to me as if it is going to be a comparatively simple affair.”

  Inspector Payne turned to Marsland.

  “I think you said you found the door open, Mr. Marsland. Do you mean wide open or partly closed?”

  “I found it wide open,” replied Marsland. “I thought at the time that it had not been properly closed and that the wind had blown it open.”

  “That means that the murderer got in through this window and left by the door,” said Inspector Payne to Detective Gillett. “He left it open when he fled.”

  “But what about Westaway’s theory that he was in the house when Mr. Marsland came here?” asked Gillett. “What about the crash Mr. Marsland heard when the picture fell down? What about the plan of the hidden money that disappeared after Mr. Marsland left?”

  It was plain that Detective Gillett, who had to investigate the crime, was not in sympathy with Inspector Payne’s method of solving difficult points by ignoring them.

  Inspector Payne stroked his chin thoughtfully.

  “There are a lot of interesting little points to be cleared up,” he said cheerfully.

  “Yes, there are,” responded Detective Gillett, “and I’ve no doubt we will find more of them as we go along.”

  It was obvious to Marsland that in keeping silent about Miss Maynard’s presence at Cliff Farm on the night of the storm, and the means by which she had entered the house, he was placing obstacles in the way of the elucidation of the tragedy.

  CHAPTER VI

  From the front gate of Cliff Farm the road wound up the hill steeply and sinuously, following the broken curves of the coastline till it disappeared in the cutting of the hill three hundred yards from the house, and reappeared on the other side. As far as could be seen from the house, the cutting through the hill was the only place where the road diverged from the cliff.

  No other short cut on a large scale had been attempted by the makers of the road, which, for the most part, skirted the irregular outline of the bluff and rocky coast until it seemed a mere white thread in the distant green of the spacious downs which stretched for many miles to the waters of the Channel.

  On the far side of the cutting the downs came fully into view, rolling back from the edge of the cliffs to a low range of distant wooded hills, and stretching ahead till they were merged in the town of Staveley, nearly ten miles away. Staveley’s churchspires could be seen from the headland near Cliff Farm on a clear day, and the road in fro
nt of the farm ran to the town, skirting the edge of the cliffs for nearly the whole of the way.

  Crewe and Marsland walked up the road from the house for some distance in silence. Sir George Granville had gone back to Staveley in his car, but his nephew and Crewe had arranged to stay behind and spend the night at Ashlingsea. Crewe desired to begin his investigations without delay, and Inspector Payne had asked Mr. Marsland to remain at Ashlingsea in case Detective Gillett wanted further light from him on incidental points. As they walked along, Crewe was thoughtful, and Marsland scrutinized the way-side closely, anxious to find the spot where his horse had swerved and stumbled on the previous night. Thus preoccupied, they reached the highest point of the cliff, a rocky headland which ran out from the hill-top on the other side of the cutting, forming a landmark well known to the fishermen of the district.

  The headland, which was not more than a hundred yards across at the base, jutted sharply out into the sea. Immediately beyond it, on the Staveley side, the road ran along the edge of the cliffs for several hundred yards, with a light rail fence on the outside as some protection for traffic from the danger of going over the side to the rocks below. Where the grassy margin of the headland narrowed to this dangerous pass, an ancient and faded notice board on a post which had departed from its perpendicular position warned drivers that the next portion of the road was DANGEROUS, and a similar board was affixed to the other end of the protecting fence.

  Marsland stopped opposite the point where the first notice-board confronted them from the narrowing margin of headland.

  “It was somewhere about here that my horse took fright last night, I think,” he said, examining the green bank on the side of the road farthest from the cliff. “Yes, here is where he slipped.”

  Crewe examined the deep indentation of hoofmarks with interest.

  “It’s lucky for you your horse shied in that direction,” he said. “If he had sprung the other way you might have gone over the cliffs, in spite of the fence. Look here!”

  Marsland followed him to the edge of the cliff and glanced over. The tide was out, and the cliffside fell almost perpendicularly to the jagged rocks nearly 300 feet below.

  “They’d be covered at high tide,” said Crewe, pointing downward to the rocks. “But even if one fell over at high tide there would not be much chance of escape. The breakers must come in with terrific force on this rocky coast.”

  “It’s a horribly dangerous piece of road, especially at night-time,” said Marsland. “I suppose there was some bad accident here at one time or another, which compelled the local authorities to put up that fence and the warning notices. Even now, it’s far from safe. Somebody’s had a narrow escape from going over: look at that notice-board leaning down on one side. Some passing motor-car has gone too close to the edge of the road—probably in the dark—and bumped it half over.”

  “I noticed it,” said Crewe. “I agree with you: this piece of road is highly dangerous. There will be a shocking accident here some day unless the local authorities close this portion of the road and make a detour to that point lower down where those sheep are grazing. But local authorities never act wisely until they have had an accident. Still, I suppose the people of the country-side are so well used to this cliff road that they never think of the danger. Apparently it’s the only road between Ashlingsea and Staveley.”

  Crewe slowly filled his large pipe, and lit it. He smoked thoughtfully, gazing round at the scene. The high headland on which they stood commanded an uninterrupted view of downs, sea, and coast. It was a clear day, and the distant city of Staveley, with its towering spires, was silhouetted against the sky like an etching in grey. To the left the fishing village of Ashlingsea nestled on the sands, its stone-grey houses gleaming in a silver setting, the sails of its fishing fleet flecked white on the sunlit blue of the sea.

  On the Ashlingsea side the cliffs fell away quickly, and sloped down to a level beach less than a mile from the headland. About five hundred yards from the headland the cliff front was less precipitous, and a footpath showed a faint trail on its face, running down to a little stone landing place, where a fisherman could be seen mooring a boat. Crewe pointed out the path to Marsland.

  “I should like to explore that path,” he said. “I should say it is not very far from Cliff Farm. Do you think you could manage it?”

  The question referred to the fact that Marsland was a wounded man. Crewe had taken a fancy to Marsland on account of his unaffected manner and manly bearing. It was evident to him that the young man had been a good officer, a staunch comrade, and that he had been extremely popular with the men under him. No word in reference to Marsland’s military career had passed between Crewe and his companion.

  Crewe was anxious to respect the medical advice which forbade Marsland to discuss the war or anything relating to his experience at the front. But in order to clear the way for candour and companionship Crewe thought it best to give an occasional indication that Sir George Granville had confided in him about his nephew’s state of health and the cause of it. Crewe was somewhat amused at the pains taken to make Marsland forget his past connection with the Army, when in so many ways he betrayed to any keen observer the effects of military training and discipline.

  “I can manage it quite easily,” said Marsland with a smile, in reply to Crewe’s question. “I am not such a wreck as you’d all like to make me out. Come along! I’ll get to the bottom before you.”

  They walked along to the cliff path. When they reached it they found it was not noticeable from the road, which at that point ran back three hundred yards or more from the cliff to enter the hill-cutting. Cliff Farm stood in the hollow less than a quarter of a mile away. The commencement of the path was screened from view by the furze which grew along the edge of the cliffs at this point. It took Crewe and Marsland some minutes before they could find the entrance to the path, but when they did they found the descent by it to the rocks below tolerably easy, the cliff at this point not being more than seventy feet high. The track ended abruptly about fifteen feet from the bottom, but the rocks afforded good foothold and handhold for the remaining distance.

  The tide was out, and the coastline at the foot of the cliffs showed for miles towards Staveley in black rocky outline, with broken reefs running hundreds of yards out to sea.

  “It’s a bad piece of coast,” said Marsland, eyeing the reefs and the rocky foreshore. “If a ship had run ashore anywhere between here and Staveley in last night’s storm she would not have had much chance.”

  Crewe did not reply; his keen eyes were fixed on a line of rocks on the right about a hundred yards from where they stood. He walked rapidly to the spot, and Marsland could see him stoop down by a pool in the rocks and pick up something. As he returned, Marsland saw that the detective was carrying a man’s soft grey felt hat, stained and saturated with sea-water.

  “I suppose somebody lost it from the cliffs last night,” remarked Marsland.

  Crewe wrung the hat as dry as he could with his hands, rolled it up, and placed it in an inside pocket of his coat before replying.

  “I do not think it blew off from the headland,” he said. “In fact, it couldn’t have done so. There may be nothing in the find, but it’s worth a few inquiries. But look at that fisherman, Marsland. He’s a picturesque touch of colour.”

  The fisherman who had been mooring his boat had turned to come off the rough landing-stage. He stopped when he saw Crewe and Marsland, and stared suspiciously at them. He was an old man, but vigorous and upright, with a dark swarthy face, hooked nose, and flashing black eyes, which contrasted strikingly with a long snow-white beard. He wore a long red cloak fastened to his neck with clasps, and reaching nearly to his feet, which were bare.

  He stood for a few moments looking at the two men, his red cloak making a bright splash of colour against the grey stones of the landing. Then, with a slight shrug of his shoulders, he walked quickly off the landing-place. Crewe nodded to him pleasantly as he approached, and a
sked him to where the path they had just descended led.

  The old man, with a slight shake of his head, pointed to his lips and his ears, and then, accelerating his pace, walked rapidly away along the rocks towards the headland.

  “Deaf and dumb, poor beggar!” said Marsland, watching his retreating figure until it turned the headland and was lost to view. “I say, Crewe, did you ever see such an odd fish on an English foreshore?”

  “Italian, I should say,” said Crewe. “But he looks as if he might have stepped out of a Biblical plate. He would make an admirable model for St. Peter, with his expressive eyes and hooked nose and patriarchal beard. We’ll have a look at his boat.”

  They walked along the landing-place to the boat, which had been moored to an iron ring at the end. It was a halfdecked motor-boat about twenty feet long, empty except for a coil of rope thrown loosely in the bottom, and a small hand fishing-net. The boat was painted white, and the name Zulietta could be seen on the stern in black letters.

  They turned away, and Crewe suggested to his companion that they should walk along the beach and back to Cliff Farm by the road instead of returning by the path they had just descended. He added that he wanted to have a good look at the approach to the farm from the village.

  Marsland readily agreed, and they walked for some distance in silence. He glanced at Crewe expectantly from time to time, but the detective appeared to be wrapped in thought. When they had covered more than half the distance between the landing-place and the point where the cliffs sloped down to level ground, Marsland spoke.

  “Have you reached any conclusions yet, Crewe?”

  “About this murder?”

  “Of course.”

  “I have not come to many definite conclusions so far,” said Crewe meditatively. “But of one thing I am certain. The unravelling of this crime is not going to be quite such a simple matter as Inspector Payne seems to think.”