He was too impatient for her news to spare time for more than a vague disconnected account of the accident. He assured her that he was all right again, except for a cut on the head which he showed her. It was on her news more than on anything else that the question of his return to Staveley depended.
She told him in response to his questions that the murder had created a sensation. Every one was talking about it. The Staveley Courier had published a two column account of the tragedy with details about the victim and the eccentricities of his grandfather in later years. Stress was laid, in the newspaper account of the story, on the rumour that old Joseph Lumsden had buried his money after the war broke out, and on the disappointment of the legatees whose legacies could not be paid at his death because the money could not be found. The police, it was stated, had questioned these legatees as to their movements on the night of the murder. The theory of the police seemed to be that the murder had been committed by some one who had heard about the buried money and believed it was hidden in the house, or thought the victim had known where it was hidden.
She told him that Scotland Yard had sent down a detective to investigate the crime, and that Mr. Crewe, the famous private detective, was also working on it.
“Crewe!” he exclaimed in dismay. “Who has brought him into it?”
“He happened to be staying at Staveley with Sir George Granville on the night of the murder, and when Mr. Marsland rang up his uncle, Sir George Granville, from the Ashlingsea police station to say he was all right, and to tell Sir George about the murder, Mr. Crewe was naturally interested in it. He took up the case on his own initiative because his host’s nephew discovered the body.”
“I can’t follow you,” he said. “Who is Mr. Marsland?” He started back with a look of terror in his eyes. “My God, you don’t mean Captain Marsland? That is who it is; that is who it is! I knew I was right.”
“Arnold, what is the matter?” she exclaimed, rising to her feet and putting a hand on his shoulder. “You look dreadful.”
“Captain Marsland,” he muttered. “Captain Marsland come to life again.” He raised his clenched hand and shook it slowly as if to give impressive emphasis to his words. “That is the man who shot poor Frank. I knew I was right.”
“Impossible.”
He turned on her fiercely.
“Impossible,” he echoed. “Who are you to say it is impossible? What do you know about it or about him? Perhaps you are in love with him?”
“Don’t be foolish, Arnold,” she said sternly. “The Mr. Marsland I am speaking of is not a captain—at least, he does not wear uniform, and I have not heard any one call him ‘captain.’ At any rate, it is impossible for him to have killed Frank Lumsden. I was at the farm before he was, and poor Frank’s dead body was upstairs all the time I was there, though I did not know it.”
“All the time you were there? When did you get there?”
“About six o’clock—just as the storm came on.”
“Six o’clock? And was there no one at the house when you got there?”
“No one.”
“You saw no trace of anyone having been there?”
“No. I found the key of the door in the lock and naturally I thought that Frank had left it there—that you and he were inside. You remember that you told me to be there about six o’clock, and that you and Frank would be there before then.”
“Yes. That was the arrangement, but—well, never mind that, Elsie, now; tell me your story.”
“I opened the door and walked in,” she said. “I called out ‘Is there anybody in?’ but I got no answer. I thought then that you and Frank were in one of the sheds, and I sat down in the sitting-room, expecting you would be back in a moment. I took the key out of the door so as to make you knock in order to get in. The rain was just commencing then, but it had been blowing hard for half an hour. About ten minutes after I had been in the sitting-room there was a knock at the front door. Naturally I thought it was you. I rushed to open it and as I flung it back I asked what had kept you so long. But the man on the door step was a stranger—this Mr. Marsland.”
“What is he like?” asked Brett quickly.
“He is rather good-looking; fair-haired and fair-skinned and blue-eyed—the Saxon type. He is about medium height—not quite so tall as you.”
“How old is he?”
“Quite young—about 26 or 27, I should say.”
“Does he wear glasses—gold-rimmed eye-glasses?”
“He was not wearing them then, but he does wear them as a rule. I think he told me subsequently that he had lost a pair while he was riding along—blown off by the wind.”
“What explanation did he give of his visit?”
“He had been riding across the downs from Staveley and had lost his way in the storm. His horse was lame and when he saw the house he decided to seek shelter.”
“Did you believe him?”
“Of course I did—then.”
“Do you believe him now?”
“I don’t know, Arnold, after what you have said. He may have been there before I was—it may have been he who left the key in the door.”
“I am sure of it.”
“He came in and sat down—he certainly acted as if he had never been in the house before. I do not know how long we were in the sitting-room—perhaps twenty minutes. We did not talk very much. I was busy trying to think what had become of you and Frank. I thought it best to tell him as little as possible, so I made up a story that I had found the door open and had walked in with the intention of taking shelter until the storm was over. I said nothing about the key. I began to get a little nervous as we sat there listening to the storm. I was upset about you.”
“Go on,” he said impatiently, as she paused.
“Presently we heard a crash upstairs—it was like breaking glass or china. Mr. Marsland said he would go upstairs and see what it was. I determined to go with him, as I was too frightened by that time to stay alone. On one of the stairs he picked up Grandfather Lumsden’s cryptogram. I felt then that Frank had been there, and that something dreadful had happened. We went upstairs, and there we found Frank’s dead body in the arm-chair. I thought at first that he had been taken ill after you and he got there that afternoon, and that he had died alone while you were away trying to get a doctor. But Mr. Marsland said he had been shot. Poor Frank! What a dreadful end.”
“What time did you leave?”
“We left almost at once. That would be about a quarter to seven. He went to Ashlingsea police station to report the discovery of the body. I asked him not to drag me into it—not to tell the police that I had been at the farm. I thought that was the best thing to do until I saw you—until I found where you had been.”
“Quite right, Elsie—everything you do is right, my dear girl. And while you and this Marsland were at the farm I was just recovering consciousness on the Staveley road after a bad smash. It was after five o’clock before I left Staveley; I had told Frank I would leave about three o’clock, but I was delayed by several things. He told me he would come along the road to meet me. I was driving along the road fairly fast in order to reach the farm before the storm broke, and I must have been dazed by a flash of lightning. The next thing I remember was being awakened by the rain falling on my face as I lay unconscious beside the car, which had been overturned.”
“Were you badly hurt, dear?”
“I was badly shaken and bruised, but the only cut was the one on my head. I didn’t know what to do at first. I thought I would walk back to Staveley and tell them at the garage about the car. But finally I decided to go on to the Cliff Farm, as it was so much nearer than Staveley, and then go to Staveley by train in the morning. It must have been nearly eight o’clock when I reached the farm and found the front door open.”
“We locked it,” she interposed. “That is, Mr. Marsland did: he told me that he was sure he heard the lock click.”
“It was open when I got there—wide open,” he persist
ed.
“Then Mr. Marsland was right. The murderer was in the house while we were there. The crash we heard was made by him, and after we went away he bolted and left the hall door open.”
“The murderer was in the house while you were there,” he said. “There is nothing more certain than that. The murderer was Captain Marsland.”
“I can’t believe it,” she said.
“Wasn’t it he who put the idea into your head, after you had left the house, that the murderer might have been upstairs all the time?”
“Yes, it was.”
“And he told you that he had slammed the hall door when he left? You didn’t see him close it?”
“No, I was waiting for him down the path. After seeing poor Frank I felt too frightened to stay in the house.
“Marsland left the door open, but told you he had closed it, his object being to give the police the impression that it had been left open by some one who left the house after he did. But I closed it when I left—I distinctly remember doing so.”
“What makes you suspect Marsland? He had no grudge against Frank. Why should he kill him?”
“If Marsland didn’t kill him, who did?”
“Any one may have done so. A tramp, for instance, who had broken into the house and was there when Frank came home.”
“Do tramps in this country carry revolvers?”
“Not usually. But since the war many of the men discharged from the army do.”
“There you’ve said it. Many of the officers who have been discharged carry revolvers, but not the men. They have got used to doing it. At the front only officers carry revolvers. And Marsland is an officer—a captain. He was a captain in the London Rifle Brigade, in the battalion to which Frank and I belonged.”
“Oh!” There was a note of dismay in the exclamation of surprise. “Does he know you, Arnold?”
“I was not one of his company, but of course he knows me.”
“Did he know Frank? Do you think he knew Frank when he saw his dead body in the room?”
“Of course he knew Frank. Frank was in his Company.”
“He did not say anything to me about this as we walked home,” said Elsie thoughtfully. “And perhaps he has not told the police. It is very strange.”
“There is nothing strange about it. He had good reasons for saying nothing.”
“You think he shot Frank? Why should he commit such a crime?”
“My dear Elsie, strange things happen in war. Frank told me something about Captain Marsland, and as soon as you mentioned his name it all came back to me. But we thought he was dead. Frank told me he was killed at the front—a stray bullet or something.”
“What was it that Frank told you about him? I must know.”
“Marsland sent a man to certain death to get him out of the way. One night he sent Frank and another man—Collingwood, I think Frank said his name was—as a listening patrol. They had to crawl up near the German trenches and, lying down with their ears to the ground, listen for sounds in the German trenches which might indicate that the Germans were getting ready to make an attack. While they were out this fellow Collingwood told Frank his history. Collingwood had a sort of premonition that he would not get back alive, and he took Frank into his confidence. He said he knew that Marsland had sent him out in the hope that the Germans would get him. It appears that Collingwood and Marsland were both in love with the same girl, and she preferred Collingwood, though her parents didn’t approve of him. Collingwood was a gentleman, like a great many more of the rankers in Kitchener’s Army. He gave Frank a letter to this girl, and her photograph, and asked Frank to see that she got them if he himself was killed. And killed he was that night—through the treachery of Marsland. While they were listening they heard the Germans getting ready for an attack. They crept back to warn their comrades, but there was no one to warn. The trench had been evacuated. When Marsland sent Frank and Collingwood out as a listening patrol he had an order in his pocket to vacate the trench, as it had been decided to fall back half a mile to a better position. He thought he was sending Collingwood and Frank to their death. Collingwood was killed. The Germans attacked before he and Frank could get away, but Frank, as you know, was taken prisoner. I was taken prisoner the same day, but at a different sector about a mile away. Subsequently Frank and I met as prisoners—and after being tortured by the Germans we got away.”
“And did Frank deliver Collingwood’s letter to the girl?”
“No, that is the sad part of it. The Germans took all his papers from him and he never saw them again. He did not know the address of the girl or even her name.”
“It was a dreadful thing for Captain Marsland to do,” she murmured.
“A great many dreadful things have been done out there,” he said. “I’ll tell you my idea of how this murder was committed. Marsland thought Frank had been killed by the Germans. After riding across the downs beyond Staveley he met Frank, who was walking along the road to meet me. He stopped Frank and pretended to be very friendly to him. They talked over old times at the front, Marsland being anxious to know how Collingwood had died and whether Collingwood had any idea that he had been sent to his death. As there was no sign of my car, Frank turned back with Marsland to the farm. While they were in the house Frank let slip the fact that Collingwood had confided in him before he died. Perhaps Marsland became aware of it through an effort on Frank’s part to get from him the name of the girl to whom Collingwood had been practically engaged.
“No doubt there were angry words between them; and Marsland, in order to save himself from being exposed by Frank to the regimental authorities, and to the girl, shot him dead. That would be a few minutes before you reached the farm. When you reached the house Marsland had gone outside to remove traces of the crime—perhaps to burn something or to wash blood-stains from his hands or clothing at the pump. He left the key in the door so that he could enter the house again. When he found the key gone he was confused: he was not certain whether he had placed the key in the lock. He did not believe that any one had entered the house, but to make sure on that point he knocked. He was surprised when you opened the door, but he played his part so well that you did not suspect he had been in the house before. As you had not discovered the body, he thought it best that you and he should discover it together. That would be less suspicious, as far as he was concerned, than for you to go away without discovering it. Had you betrayed any suspicion that you thought he was the murderer he would have shot you too, and then made off.”
“But his horse was there,” she said. “It was quite lame. He could not have ridden away on it; and to leave it behind was to leave the police a convincing clue that he had been to Cliff Farm.”
“I was forgetting about his horse,” said Brett. “It was the fact that his horse was there which made him knock after he saw the key had been taken from the door. He had to brazen it out.”
“The police have no suspicion of him, so far as I can ascertain,” said the girl.
“We must direct their attention to him,” was the reply.
“Will you come back to Staveley and tell Inspector Murchison?”
“No, that would be injudicious. My instinct was right in telling me to get out of sight when I saw Frank’s dead body. It was after you left the house with Marsland that I got there. The door was open as I said—Marsland left it open purposely, and told you a lie about closing it. I went upstairs, as I couldn’t see Frank about below, and when I saw him dead I felt immediately that his murder was but the continuation of some black deed in France. I knew instinctively that if I didn’t disappear I should be the next victim. And so I should be if Marsland knew how much I know about him. The man is a cold-blooded villain, who thinks nothing of taking human life. If I went back to Staveley and accused him, he would take steps to put me out of the way. We must get him arrested for the murder, and when he is under lock and key I’ll come back to Staveley and tell the police all I know about him.”
“But how c
an we get the police to arrest him unless you first tell them all you know?” she asked.
“We must find a way,” he said thoughtfully.
CHAPTER XIII
Crewe engaged a room in Whitethorn Gardens in order to watch Mrs. Penfield’s movements, and took up his post of observation immediately. As he did not want Mrs. Penfield to know he was watching her house, he had chosen an attic bedroom on the opposite side and some distance higher up the steep street—an elevated vantage point, which not only commanded a view of all the houses in the street but of a great portion of Staveley and the surrounding country-side as well. From this eyrie the detective could see the front, the downs, and the distant cliff road to Ashlingsea; but the residence of Brett’s landlady engrossed his attention.
There was very little sign of life in the street. One or two old ladies walked primly in the front gardens before dusk, but went inside as soon as the evening sea-mist began to rise. Sedate maidservants lit the gas and lowered blinds, and the street was left to darkness till a lamplighter came and lit a street-lamp which stood near No. 41. Crewe observed that the front rooms of No. 41 remained black and unlighted: apparently Mrs. Penfield lived in the back of the house and took her meals there.
As darkness was falling, Mrs. Penfield’s elderly servant came from the back of the house, carrying a large basket. She went out of the front gate, turned up the street, and disappeared round the corner. About half an hour later Crewe heard the front gate click, and saw Mrs. Penfield appear. Her face was plainly visible by the street light as she glanced anxiously up and down the street several times, as though she feared she was watched. Then she turned down the street and walked quickly away.
The Third Mystery Page 66