The Third Mystery

by James Holding

  There was a bundle of faded letters in one of the pigeon-holes tied with black ribbon, which had been written to Mrs. James Lumsden from somebody who signed himself “Yours to command, Geoffrey La Touche.” These letters were forty years old, and had been sent during a period of three years from “Her Majesty’s sloop Hyacinth” at different foreign ports. They were stiff and formal, though withal courteous in tone, and various passages in them suggested that the writer had been an officer in the Royal Navy and a relative of Mrs. Lumsden. They ceased with a letter written to “James Lumsden, Esq.,” expressing the writer’s “deep regret and sincere sorrow” on learning of his “dear niece’s sad and premature end.”

  There was another room opposite this office which had doubtless been intended for a breakfast-room, but was now stored with odds and ends: superfluous articles of furniture, some trunks, a pile of bound volumes of the Illustrated London News, and a few boxes full of miscellaneous rubbish. The passage on which these rooms opened terminated in two stone steps leading into the kitchen, which was the full width of the house. A notable piece of furniture in this room was an oaken dresser with shelves reaching to the ceiling. There were also a deal table, some kitchen chairs, and an arm-chair.

  From the blackened beams of its low sloping ceiling some hams and strings of onions hung, and an open tea-caddy stood on the table, with a leaden spoon in it, as though somebody had recently been making tea. An old brown earthenware teapot stood by the fire-place with tea-leaves still in the pot, and Crewe noticed on the mantelpiece a churchwarden pipe, with a spill of paper alongside. He found a pair of horn spectacles and an old newspaper on the top of the press beside the old-fashioned fire-place. Evidently the kitchen had been the favourite room of Frank Lumsden’s grandfather—the eccentric old man who had built the landing-place.

  Before examining the upper portion of the house Crewe closed the doors and windows he had opened, restoring things to the condition in which he had found them. Then he went upstairs, and, after opening the windows and blinds as he had opened them downstairs, entered the room in which the murdered man had been discovered.

  It was while Crewe was thus engaged that his quick ears detected a slight crunch of footsteps on the ground outside, as though somebody was approaching the house. The room he was searching looked out on pasture land, but he was aware that there was a gravel path on the other side, running from the outbuildings at the side to the rear of the house. He crossed over to the corresponding room on that side of the house, and looked out of the open window, but could see no one.

  He ran quietly downstairs and into the kitchen. His idea was to watch the intruder by looking through one of the kitchen windows, without revealing his own presence, but he found to his annoyance that the little diamond shaped kitchen window which looked out on the back was so placed as to command a view of only a small portion of the bricked yard at the back of the house.

  He waited for a moment in the hope that the visitor would enter the house through the unlocked kitchen door, but as he heard no further sound he decided to go in search of the person whose footsteps he had heard. He opened the door and looked over the empty yard. Suddenly a woman’s figure appeared in the doorway of the barn on the left. Immediately she saw Crewe she retreated into the shed in the hope that she had not been seen. In order to undeceive her on this point, Crewe walked down the yard to the barn, but before he reached it she came out to meet him. She was young and pretty and well dressed.

  “You are Mr. Crewe,” she said with composure.

  “And you are Miss Maynard. We have not met before, but I have heard a great deal about you.”

  She read suspicion in his use of the conventional phrase and she decided to meet it.

  “I came out to look at the old place—at the scene of this dreadful tragedy—before finally deciding what I ought to do.”

  He realized that having said so much she had more to say, and he gave her no assistance.

  “Perhaps Mr. Marsland has not told you, Mr. Crewe, that I was with him in the house when he discovered the body.”

  “He has not,” replied Crewe.

  “That makes it all the more difficult for me. I do not mind telling you, for you are his friend, and you are such a clever man that I feel I will be right in taking your advice.”

  Crewe’s mental reservation to be slow in offering her advice was an indication that his suspicions of her were not allayed.

  “I also sought shelter here from the storm on that fateful night,” she continued. “But because I was afraid of the gossip of Ashlingsea I asked Mr. Marsland if he would mind keeping my name out of it. And he very generously promised to do so.”

  “A grave error on both sides,” said Crewe.

  She was quick in seizing the first opening he gave her.

  “That is the conclusion I have come to; that is why I think I ought to go to the police and tell them that I was here. They may be able to make something out of my story—they may be able to see more in it than I can. My simple statement of facts might fit in with some other information in their possession of which I know nothing, and in that way might lead to the detection of the man who killed Frank Lumsden. But how can I go to them and tell them I was here after I begged Mr. Marsland to say nothing about me? He would never forgive me for placing him in such an embarrassing position. It would not be right.”

  “And it is not right to keep from the police any information to which they are entitled.”

  “That is my difficulty,” she said, with a smile of gratitude to him for stating it so clearly.

  “I have no hesitation in advising you to tell the police the whole truth,” said Crewe.

  “And Mr. Marsland?”

  “He must extricate himself from the position in which his promise to you has placed him. He knows that the promise should never have been made, and doubtless in the end he will be glad to have been released from it.”

  “I hope he will understand my motives,” she said.

  “Perhaps not. But he will begin to realize, what all young men have to learn, that it is sometimes difficult to understand the motives which actuate young ladies.”

  That reply seemed to indicate to her that their conversation had reached the level of polite banter.

  “Will you plead for me?” she asked.

  “That is outside my province,” was the disappointing reply. “I understood you to say, Miss Maynard, that you came here that night for shelter from the storm. Did you arrive at the house before Marsland or after him?”

  There was a moment of hesitation before her reply was given.

  “A few minutes before him.”

  “No doubt you will materially assist the police by giving them a full account of what you know,” said Crewe.

  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 a voluntary offer of his services, but then it was still more seldom that a young lady of Miss Maynard’s social standing came to seek his advice or assistance at the police station. As the daughter of a well-to-do lady, Miss Maynard was entitled to official respect.

  The sergeant had known Miss Maynard since her mother had first come to live at Ashlingsea fifteen years ago. He had seen her grow up from a little girl to a young lady, but the years had increased the gulf between them. As a schoolgirl home from her holidays it was within the sergeant’s official privilege to exchange a word or two when saluting her in the street. Her development into long dresses made anything more than a bare salutation savour of familiarity, and the sergeant knew his place 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 he was one of the first to admit the claims of adolescence to the honours of maturity. Then came a time with the further lapse of years when she reached the
threshold of womanhood, and to utter her name in salutation would have savoured of familiarity. So the salute became a silent one as indicative of Sergeant Westaway’s recognition that his voice could not carry across the increased gulf between them.

  “I have something very important to tell you,” said Miss Maynard, in reply to his intimation that the full extent of his official powers were at her disposal.

  “Ah!”

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

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

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

  “Oh!” It was an exclamation in which astonishment and anticipation of official delight were blended. “And do you—do you know anything about it?” he asked.

  “I am not sure what you will think of my story—whether there is any clue in it. I must leave that for you to judge. But I feel that I ought to tell you all that I do know.”

  “Quite right,” said the sergeant. His official manner, rising like a tide, was submerging his social sense of inequality. “There is nothing like telling the police the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. It is always the best way.” His social sense made a last manifestation before it threw up its arms and sank. “Not that I suppose for one moment, Miss Maynard, that you had anything to do with it—that is to say, that you actually participated in the crime.”

  He looked at her inquiringly and she shook her head, smiling sadly as she 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 to her to do her best to justify his high hopes. “In some respects it is a mysterious crime, and although the police have their suspicions—and very strong suspicions too—they are always glad to get reliable information, 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 an outrageous attempt to penetrate the veil of official secrecy that he could refrain from rebuking her only by excusing it on the ground of her youth and inexperience.

  “At present I can say nothing,” was his reply.

  She turned aside from his official manœuvring and took up her own story:

  “What I came to tell you is that I was at Cliff Farm on the night that poor 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 indicated that the sergeant was deeply disappointed with her story. “We know all about his visit there. He came and told us—it was through him that we discovered the body. He has been straightforwardness itself: he has told 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 went upstairs and discovered the body.”

  “He has said nothing about this,” said the sergeant impressively. “His conduct is very strange in that respect.”

  “I am afraid I am to blame for that,” she said. “As he walked home with me from the farm on his way to the police station I asked him if he would mind saying nothing about my presence at the house. I told him that I was anxious to avoid all the worry and unpleasantness I should have to put up with if it was publicly known that I had been there. He readily agreed not to mention my name. I thought at the time that it was very kind of him, but in thinking it all over since I am convinced that I did wrong. I have come to the conclusion that it was a very extraordinary thing for him to agree to as he did, not knowing me—we had never met before. I felt that the right thing to do was to come to you and tell you all I know so that you can compare it with what Mr. Marsland has told you. In that way you will be able to make fuller inquiries, and to acquit him of any sinister motive in his kind offer to me to keep my name out of it.”

  The sergeant nodded his head slowly. There was much to take in, and he was 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,” she said looking at the police officer steadily. “But it has already occurred to you, Sergeant, that Mr. Marsland, in kindly keeping my name out of it, had to depart from the truth in the story he told you about his presence at Cliff Farm, and that he may have thought it advisable to depart from the truth in some other particulars as well.”

  The sergeant’s mental process would not have carried him that far without assistance, but there was no conscious indication of assistance in the emphasis with which he said:

  “I see that.”

  “Let me tell you exactly what happened so far as I am concerned,” she went 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 go too fast for me; and it will be better for you if you take time—you will be able to think it over as you go along. This promises to be most important. Detective Gillett of Scotland Yard will be anxious to see it. I am sorry he’s not here now; he has been recalled to London, but I expect him down again to-morrow.”

  “On Friday, the night of the storm, I left my house about dusk—that would 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 on the downs when the storm began to gather. I thought of retracing my steps, but the storm gathered so swiftly and blew so fiercely that I was compelled to seek shelter in the only house for miles around—Cliff Farm.

  “The wind was blowing hard and big drops of rain were falling when I reached the door. I knocked, but received no answer. Then I noticed that the key was in the door. Owing to the darkness, which had come on rapidly with the storm, I had not seen it at first. The door had a Yale lock and the key turned very easily. I was wearing light gloves, and when I turned the key in the lock I noticed it was sticky. I looked at my glove and saw a red stain—it was blood.”

  “Ah!” interrupted Sergeant Westaway. “A red stain—blood? Just wait a minute while I catch up to you.”

  “I was slightly alarmed at that,” she continued, after a pause; “but I had no suspicion that a cruel murder had been committed. In my alarm I took the key out of the lock and closed the door. I felt safer with the door locked against any possible intruder. I went into the sitting-room and 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 the door while he went to one of the outbuildings to do some work. The blood 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 the police officer.

  Sergeant Westaway looked at it closely. Inside the hole made for the purpose of placing the key on a ring he saw a slight stain of dried blood. 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 felt sure it was he—that he had seen the light of t
he candle through the window 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 horse had 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, the owner of the house, was in one of the outbuildings attending to the animals. I saw that he was watching me closely and I felt uneasy. Then I 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 forgotten that they were gone. He was not wearing glasses when I saw him but I have noticed since that he does wear them.”

  “I’ve noticed the same thing,” said the sergeant. “He was not wearing glasses the night he came here to report the discovery of Mr. Lumsden’s body—I am sure of that.”

  Miss Maynard, on resuming her narrative, told how Mr. Marsland and she, hearing a crash in one of the rooms overhead, went upstairs to investigate and found the dead body of the victim sitting in an arm-chair. When she realized that a dreadful crime had been committed she 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 she was so unnerved by the tragedy that she had asked Mr. Marsland to keep her name out of it not to tell any one that she had taken shelter at the farm. It was a dreadful experience and she wanted to try and forget all about it. But now she realized that she had done wrong and that she should have come to the police station with Mr. Marsland and told what she knew.

  “That is quite right, Miss Maynard,” said the sergeant, as he finished writing down her statement. “Does Mr. Marsland know that you have come here today with the intention of making a statement?”