The Third Mystery

by James Holding

  “No; he does not, and for that reason I feel that I am not treating him fairly 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 they conflicted with the interests of the police.

  “He should not have kept your name from me,” he said. “But, apart from what 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 minutes might be to destroy traces of his guilt. But I saw nothing of a suspicious nature in his manner after I admitted him to the house.”

  The sergeant was impressed with the closeness of her reasoning—it seemed to shed more light. Clearly she had given the matter the fullest consideration before deciding to make a statement.

  She added with a slight laugh:

  “You cannot call his action in feeling for a missing pair of glasses suspicious?”

  “No, no,” said the sergeant generously. “We can scarcely call that suspicious.”

  “What I do regard as suspicious—or, at any rate, as wanting in straightforwardness—is the fact that Mr. Marsland did not tell me that he knew Mr. Lumsden in France. They were both in the London Rifle Brigade—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. “Then perhaps it is not true.”

  “Where did you hear it?”

  “In Staveley. I was talking to a wounded officer there on the front—Mr. Blake. He knew Mr. Marsland as Captain Marsland and he knew Mr. Lumsden as well. I think he said poor Mr. Lumsden had been Captain Marsland’s orderly for a time.”

  “I must look into this,” said Sergeant Westaway.

  “Unfortunately Mr. Blake has returned to the front. He left Staveley yesterday.”

  “No matter. There are other ways of getting at the truth, Miss Maynard. As I said, Detective Gillett will be down here tomorrow and I’ll show him your statement. He will probably want to interview you himself and in that case I’ll send for you. But don’t you be alarmed—he’s a nice gentlemanly young fellow and knows how to treat a lady.”

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

  “Would you please read through this and sign it?” he asked. “A very important statement—clear and concise. I feel I must congratulate you about it, Miss Maynard.”

  She read through the sergeant’s summary of her narrative, but was unable 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 guide her in her narrative to the police, was a far more comprehensive document.

  CHAPTER XVI

  Miss Maynard’s statement made such an impression of Sergeant Westaway that he determined to ride over to Staveley that afternoon and lay it before Inspector Murchison. He was so restless and excited at the new phase of the Cliff Farm murder which had been opened up by the young lady’s revelations that he decided the matter was too important to be allowed to remain where it was until Detective Gillett returned to Ashlingsea on the following day.

  Besides, twenty-five years’ rustication in Ashlingsea had made him so much of an idealist that he actually believed that any zealous activity he displayed in the only great crime which had ever happened during his long régime at Ashlingsea would be placed to his credit in the official quarters.

  After a midday dinner Sergeant Westaway wheeled forth his bicycle and, having handed over to Constable Heather the official responsibility of maintaining order in Ashlingsea, pedalled away along the cliff road to Staveley. The road was level for the greater part of the way and he reached Staveley in a little more than an hour of the time of his departure from Ashlingsea.

  Several persons—mostly women—were in the front office of the police station, waiting their turn to lay their troubles before the recognized guide and confidant of Staveley, but the constable in charge, who knew Sergeant Westaway, deferred to his official position by taking him straight into the presence of Inspector Murchison and closing the door behind him.

  The inspector was seated in his office chair talking earnestly to a shabby young woman who carried a baby, and was crying bitterly. He looked up as Westaway entered, and then he rose from his chair, as an intimation to the young woman in front of him that he had given her as much of the Government’s time as she had a right to expect. The young woman took the hint, rose to her feet and turned to go. On her way to the door she turned round and said in a pleading voice:

  “You’ll do the best you can to get him back, won’t you, sir?”

  “You can rely on me, Mrs. Richards,” responded the inspector, adding cheerily: “Keep your heart up; things are bound to come right in the end.”

  The young woman received this philosophic remark with a sob as she closed the door behind her.

  “A very sad case, that,” said Inspector Murchison to Sergeant Westaway.

  “Eh—yes?” responded the sergeant absently, for he was thinking of other things.

  “She’s Fanny Richards, the wife of Tom Richards, the saddler’s son,” continued the inspector. “I’ve known her since she was that high. Tom Richards was called up for service a little while ago, and his wife moved heaven and earth to get him exempted. She went to the right quarters too—she used to be housemaid there—but perhaps I’d better not mention names. At all events, the tribunal gave her husband total exemption. And what does her husband do? Is he grateful? Not a bit! Two days after the tribunal had exempted him the scoundrel cleared out—disappeared from the district with a chambermaid from one of the hotels on the front. I tell you, Westaway, the ingratitude of some of our sex to the women they have sworn to love and cherish makes me angry. But, however, you haven’t come from Ashlingsea to discuss the failings of human nature with me. What can I do for you?”

  Before leaving Ashlingsea, Sergeant Westaway had withdrawn Miss Maynard’s statement from its official repository, and placed it carefully in his pocket-book. His hand wandered towards his breast pocket as he replied that his visit to Staveley was connected with the Cliff Farm case.

  “And what is the latest news about that?” asked the inspector with interest.

  It was the moment for Sergeant Westaway’s triumph, and he slowly drew his pocket-book from his breast pocket and extracted the statement.

  “I have made an important discovery,” he announced, in a voice which he vainly strove to keep officially calm. “It affects a—well-known and leading gentleman of your district. This paper”—he flattened it out on the table with a trembling hand—“is a statement made by Miss Maynard of Ashlingsea, which implicates Mr. Marsland, the nephew of Sir George Granville.”

  “In the Cliff Farm case?”

  Sergeant Westaway nodded portentously, and wiped the perspiration from his forehead—for the office fire was hot and he had ridden fast.

  Inspector Murchison took up the girl’s statement, and read it through. When he had finished it, he turned to the front page, and read it through again. Then he glanced up at his colleague gravely.

  “This is very important,” he said. “It throws a new aspect on the case.”

  Sergeant Westaway nodded.

  “This girl,” pursued Inspector Murchison, “she is of fairly good position, is she not?”

  Sergeant Westaway nodded again.

  “Her mother is a lady of independent means.”

  “I’ve heard of them, and I’ve seen the young lady and her mother once or twice when they’ve visited Staveley. Do you think the young lady is telling the whole truth here?”

  “Undoubtedly.” Sergeant Westaway’s tone indicated that when a member of the leading fami
ly of Ashlingsea set out to tell the truth nothing was kept back.

  The inspector got up from his chair and took a few turns up and down the office in a meditative way.

  “It’s a most extraordinary disclosure that this young woman has made,” he said at length. “Extraordinary—and awkward. I do not know what Sir George Granville will say when he learns that his nephew, instead of assisting the police, made a false and misleading statement. It is a very grave thing; a very dangerous thing in such a grave crime as this. It will give Sir George Granville a dreadful shock.”

  “It gave me a shock,” said Sergeant Westaway.

  “No doubt,” replied the inspector. “But Sir George Granville—is a different matter. We must consider his feelings; we must try to spare them. I hardly know what is best to be done. Obviously, the matter cannot be allowed to remain where it is, yet it is difficult to see what is the proper course of action to pursue. I think the best thing will be to wait until Gillett returns from London and leave it to him. When do you expect him back?”

  “I expect him back in the morning. I wired to him that I had obtained most important information.”

  “I’ll be at the station when the London express comes in in the morning. If Gillett is on board I’ll go on with him to Ashlingsea.”

  In accordance with this arrangement, Inspector Murchison arrived at Ashlingsea in the morning, in the company of Detective Gillett.

  If Sergeant Westaway expected praise from the representative of Scotland Yard it was not forthcoming. Detective Gillett seemed in a peevish humour. His boyish face looked tired and careworn, and his blue eyes were clouded.

  “Let me have a look at this statement that you are making such a fuss about,” he said.

  Long afterwards, when Sergeant Westaway had ample leisure to go over all the events in connection with the Cliff Farm case, he alighted on the conviction that the reason Detective Gillett was so offensive and abrupt in regard to Miss Maynard’s statement was that he did not like important information to reach the police while he was absent.

  “It is a voluntary and signed statement by Miss Maynard, a young lady of the district, who was at Cliff Farm the night of the murder,” said the sergeant, with dignity.

  “So much I know from Inspector Murchison, and also that the statement in some way implicates young what’s his name—Marsland. Let me have the document itself, Westaway.”

  The sergeant took it from his desk, and placed it in Detective Gillett’s hands.

  “I have added on a separate sheet of paper a few notes I gathered in the course of conversation with Miss Maynard. The most important of them deals with the fact that young Marsland was a captain in the Army, and that Lumsden was under his command in France.”

  Gillett began with an air of official weariness to read the document Westaway had handed to him, but before he had read far the abstraction vanished from his face, and was replaced by keen professional interest. He read it closely and carefully, and then he produced his pocket-book and stowed it away.

  “Westaway,” he said, “this is a somewhat important contribution to the case.” He paused for a moment and then turned sharply on Inspector Murchison. “I think you should have told me, Murchison, how damaging a piece of evidence this is against young Marsland.”

  “Not so damaging,” said the inspector, in defence. “You see, young Marsland is Sir George Granville’s nephew—”

  “So you told me half a dozen times in the train,” said Gillett, “and as I knew it before I wasn’t much impressed with the information. What I say is that this statement places Marsland in a very awkward position. He has been deceiving us from first to last.”

  “I admit it is very thoughtless—very foolish of him,” replied the inspector. “But surely, Gillett, you don’t think this young gentleman had anything to do with the murder?”

  “I am not going to be so foolish as to say that it could not possibly be him who did it. What does he mean by hiding from us the fact that Lumsden was under his command in France, and that on the night of the murder he met this girl Maynard at the farm. He seems to be a young gentleman who keeps back a great deal that the police ought to know. And I think you will admit, Murchison, that in that respect he is behaving like a very guilty man.”

  “But there may be other explanations which will place his conduct in a reasonable light—reasonable but foolish,” said the inspector, with an earnest disregard for the way in which these words contradicted each other. “Sir George Granville himself told me his nephew was an officer in the Army, but on account of his nervous breakdown the Army was never mentioned in his presence. And as for keeping Miss Maynard’s name out of his statement after she had asked him to do so—why it seems to me the sort of thing that any young man would do for a pretty girl.”

  “Especially if it played into his hands. If Marsland committed the crime, he must have jumped at the chance offered him by Miss Maynard to keep silence about her presence at the farm, because that left him a free hand in the statement he made to Westaway. He had no need to be careful about any part of his statement, because he had not to harmonize any of it with what she knew about his presence there.”

  “And what are you going to do about her statement?” asked the inspector. “You will confront Marsland with it?”

  “Yes, but before I do that I am going to make a search of the farm for clues.”

  “But you have already done that. Westaway told me that he and Heather put in two days searching the buildings and the ground round the house.”

  “Inspector, you are not quite equal to the demands of the situation,” said the Scotland Yard man patronizingly. “Westaway, myself and Heather searched the house, the outbuildings and the grounds for clues—for traces left behind unwittingly by the murderer. Our impression then was that the murderer had got away as soon as he could—everything pointed to that. But in the light of this girl’s statement we must now search for clues purposely hidden by the murderer. What was Marsland doing when he went outside the house and left the key in the door so as to let himself in again? Hiding something, of course! And where would he hide it?

  “There is only one place we haven’t searched, and that is the well,” continued Gillett. “The reason I didn’t have it emptied before was because I was not looking for hidden traces—the circumstances of the crime suggested that the murderer had gone off with the weapon that ended Lumsden’s life. But this girl’s statement showed that Marsland went out of the house and came back. What was he doing while he was outside? This is what I am going to find out.”

  “I’ll go up to the farm with you,” said the inspector. “I want to see what comes of this. I want to know what I’ve got to say to Sir George Granville.”

  “You’ve got to say nothing; you leave it to me,” said Detective Gillett. “How long will it take to get the well emptied, Westaway?”

  “Four or five hours ought to be long enough, if I can get a couple of good men,” said the sergeant.

  “See about it at once. Send Heather up with the men to superintend. We will drive out there this afternoon. I have some inquiries to make in the village this morning, and I must also see Miss Maynard.”

  Gillett, after interviewing Miss Maynard and having his lunch with Inspector Murchison at The Black-Horned Sheep, got into an antiquated hooded vehicle, drawn by a venerable white horse, which Sergeant Westaway hired at the inn to take them to Cliff Farm. The innkeeper, who, like all the rest of the town, was bursting with curiosity to learn the latest developments in the case, had eagerly volunteered to drive the police officers up to the farm, but Sergeant Westaway, determined that village gossip should learn nothing through him, had resolutely declined the offer, and drove the equipage himself. They set off with half the village gaping at them from their doors.

  Sergeant Westaway had intended to ask Detective Gillett for details concerning his interview with Miss Maynard, but he found that the sluggish and ancient quadruped between the shafts needed incessant urging and re
in-jerking to keep him moving at all. This gave him no time for conversation with the detective, who was seated in the back of the vehicle with Inspector Murchison.

  When they reached Cliff Farm Sergeant Westaway found another problem to engage his attention. A number of Ashlingsea people had been impelled by curiosity to take a hand in the pumping operations, until tiring of that mechanical labour, they had distributed themselves around the farm, strolling about, gazing vacantly at the farm buildings, or peering through the windows of the house. Constable Heather, who had been sent up with the fishermen in order that constituted authority might be represented in the pumping proceedings, frankly admitted to his superior officer that he had been unable to keep the curious spectators away from the scene.

  On hearing this, Sergeant Westaway jumped from the vehicle, and strode into the farmyard with a stern authority which had never been weakened by convivial friendship at The Black-Horned Sheep. It says much for the inherent rural respect for law and order that he was able to turn out the intruders in less than five minutes, although the majority of them lingered reluctantly outside the front fence, and watched the proceedings from a distance.

  The two fishermen whom Constable Heather had engaged for the task of emptying the well had, with the ingenuity which distinguishes those who make their living on the sea, reduced the undertaking to its simplest elements. A light trench had been dug on that side of the well where the ground had a gentle slope, and, following the lie of the land, had been continued until it connected with one of the main drains of the farm. Therefore, all that remained for the two fishermen to do was to man the pump in turns till the well was empty, the water pouring steadily into the improvised trench and so reaching the main drain, which was carrying the water away to the ditch beside the road. The originator of this plan was an elderly man with a round red face, a moist eye, and an argumentative manner. As the originator of the labour-saving device, he had exercised the right of superior intelligence to relegate to his companion most of the hard labour of carrying it out.