The Third Mystery

by James Holding

  “After firing the shot Brett went downstairs again, and the Granges saw no more of him,” continued Detective Gillett. “No doubt Brett found Lumsden’s boots in the kitchen, as you said, and after putting them on forced the window downstairs and climbed out. He got into his car and drove off without lights, being very thankful to get away without any one seeing him—as he thought.

  “The Granges did not know he had gone, and while they were quaking upstairs, wondering what to do, the front door was opened again and there was a light step in the hall. This was Miss Maynard. She had found the key in the lock which Brett had left there. By this time the storm had reached the farm. There was a high wind with heavy drops of rain. Miss Maynard, unconscious that there was a dead man upstairs, and Grange and his wife on the floor above, lighted the candle on the hallstand, and then took it into the sitting-room, where Brett had got out of the house. She sat down to wait for the appearance of Brett and Lumsden. No doubt the fact that she had found the key in the door convinced her that they were in the outbuildings. According to the Granges’ story, Miss Maynard arrived less than ten minutes after Brett’s final trip downstairs, and about a quarter of an hour after her arrival there came a knock at the front door. This was Captain Marsland.

  “The rest of the story we know, from Captain Marsland’s statement to Westaway, the only thing that is wrong with it being his omission of all mention of Miss Maynard. Grange, bending over the stairs to watch, knocked down the picture that made such a crash. When Captain Marsland and Miss Maynard found the body, she knew immediately that Brett must have had something to do with the tragedy, and therefore she asked Captain Marsland to say nothing about her presence there. If he had done so she would have had to give us an account of her movements, and the object of her visit there, and all this would have directed suspicion to Brett.

  “Not till half an hour after Grange and his wife heard the door close, when Captain Marsland and Miss Maynard departed, did they venture downstairs. They looked in at the room in which the body had been taken, and by the light of matches they saw the dead man in the chair. They got away from the house as fast as they could. They found the path down the cliff, and while Grange was helping his wife down it his hat blew off. He thought nothing of this at the time. In the old boat-house at the foot of the cliff they found Pedro, who had been sheltering there from the storm. They waited in the boat-house until the storm abated, and about nine o’clock they pushed off in the boat for Staveley, which they were unable to reach until nearly midnight, owing to the rough sea running.

  “They decided to say nothing about what they knew, their intention being to keep out of the whole affair. They were afraid that they would be worried a great deal by the police if they said anything, and they were still more afraid that the fact that they had been connected with a murder would ruin their business. In the morning old Pedro was sent over to the landing-place to find the hat Grange had lost.”

  “A very interesting story,” said Crewe.

  “It is,” said Gillett with pride in his success as a narrator. “And it won’t lose much in dramatic interest when it is unfolded in evidence at the trial. In fact, I think it will gain in interest. What a shock it will be to Brett when he finds that he was seen carrying the body of Lumsden upstairs!”

  “You are convinced that Brett was the murderer?” asked Crewe.

  “Absolutely certain. Aren’t you?”

  “No.”

  Detective Gillett stared in surprise at the inscrutable face of the man whose powers of deduction he had learned to look on with admiring awe. Sergeant Westaway, whose legs had become cramped owing to his uncomfortable attitude in a low chair, shifted his position uneasily, and also looked intently at Crewe.

  “Then whom do you suspect?” exclaimed Gillett in astonishment.

  “Suspect?” said Crewe with a slight note of protest in his voice. “I suspect no one. Suspicions in regard to this, that and the other merely cloud the view. Let us look at the facts and see what they prove.”

  “I don’t think you want better proof of murder than that the man who was seen carrying the body of the murdered man subsequently disappears, in order to escape being questioned by the police.”

  “It looks what you call suspicious,” said Crewe, “but it is not proof. You assume that Brett is the murderer, but you do not know any of the circumstances under which the crime was committed.”

  “Lumsden was walking along the road to meet Brett. They did meet, and in discussing this séance they quarrelled about the division of the money.”

  “But why quarrel about dividing the money before the money was found? They already had had some disappointments about finding the money.”

  “They may have quarrelled about something else. But why did Brett disappear, and why did he take the body to the farm and endeavour to manufacture misleading clues?”

  “I admit that his conduct is suspicious—that it is difficult to account for. But if he is guilty—if he shot Lumsden on the road or when they were driving along the road—why did he take the body to the farm where it was sure to be discovered, as he knew the Granges were to get there by 6 p.m.? Wouldn’t it have been better for him to hide the body in a field or a ditch? That would have given him more time to escape.”

  “He took the body to the farm for the purpose of making us believe that the murder was committed there,” rejoined Gillett slowly and positively.

  “And then disappeared in order to direct the police suspicions to himself,” said Crewe.

  “No doubt he was inconsistent,” Gillett admitted. “But a murderer manufacturing false clues would scarcely be in the frame of mind to think out everything beforehand. The object of leaving false clues was to get sufficient time to escape. Surely, Mr. Crewe, you are not going to say that you believe Brett had nothing to do with the murder—that he is an innocent man?”

  “I believe that he knows more about the crime than you or I, and that he disappeared in order to escape being placed in a position in which he would have to tell most of what he knows.”

  “And another person who knows a great deal about the crime is Miss Maynard,” said Gillett.

  “Yes. I think you have some awkward questions to ask her.”

  “I have,” replied the Scotland Yard representative emphatically.

  “You might ask her where she got Marsland’s eyeglasses that she dropped down the well. The boots and revolver she got from Brett—or perhaps Brett dropped them there himself on the night of the murder. But the eyeglasses are a different thing.”

  “She may have picked them up in the house, or along the garden path. I understand that Captain Marsland lost a pair of glasses that night.”

  “He did, but not the pair that were found in the well. The pair that he lost that night he has not found, but the pair you found in the well were in his possession for nearly a week after the murder. He is quite sure on that point, but does not know where he lost them.”

  “Of course, he knows that it was Miss Maynard who tried to direct our suspicions to him?” asked Gillett.

  “I told him very little, and what I did tell him was for the purpose of satisfying him on a few minor points. That was implied in my promise to you. But he asked about her before I had mentioned her name. He asked if you had seen her.”

  “And I suppose he was very indignant with her?”

  “No. He took it all very calmly. His calmness, his indifference, struck me as remarkable in one who has suffered from nervous shock.”

  “I would like to apologize to him if he is anywhere about—if it is not too much trouble to send for him.”

  “Not at all,” said Crewe. He touched the bell, and when the parlour maid appeared, he sent her in search of Captain Marsland.

  The young man entered the room a few minutes later in evening dress, and nodded cheerfully to the two police officials. He listened with a forgiving smile to Detective Gillett’s halting apology for having believed that he had endeavoured to mislead the polic
e in the statement made to Sergeant Westaway on the night of the murder.

  “Miss Maynard will find that she has over-reached herself,” said Gillett to the young man in conclusion. “I will look her up in the morning and frighten the truth out of her. She knows more about the crime than any one—except Brett. As far as I can see she will be lucky if she escapes arrest as an accomplice.”

  “Have you ever considered, Gillett, the possibility of her having been the principal?” asked Crewe.

  “No,” said the detective, who obviously was surprised at the suggestion. “Do you think that she fired the shot; that she and Brett are both in it?”

  “She fits into the tragedy in a remarkable way—she fits into the story told by the Granges.”

  “Yes,” said the detective doubtfully. “She does.”

  “Let us attempt to reconstruct the crime with her as the person who fired the shot,” continued Crewe. “Mrs. Grange was to hold a séance at the farmhouse about 6 p.m. Lumsden, Brett and this girl were to be present. Lumsden walked along the road to Staveley in the expectation of meeting Brett, who was to drive over in a motor-car. Miss Maynard, who was a good walker, set out from Ashlingsea. She left early in the afternoon, in the expectation that Brett would be at the farmhouse early. She found no one there and then set out along the Staveley road to meet Brett. He was late in starting from Staveley, and she met Lumsden, who, perhaps, was returning along the road. They decided to sit down for a little while and wait for Brett. Lumsden, who was in love with her, was overcome by passion, and seized her in his arms. There was a struggle in which the revolver that Lumsden carried fell out of his belt. She picked it up and in desperation shot him. A few minutes later Brett arrived in his car. He was horrified at what had occurred but his first thought was to save the girl he loved from the consequences of her act. He lifted the body of Lumsden into the car, and with Miss Maynard beside him on the front seat, drove to the farmhouse. She waited in the car while he carried the body into the house, and took steps for giving the impression that Lumsden was shot by some one who broke into the house. Then he went back to the car, and after giving the girl his final directions bade her a tender farewell. She entered the house and waited in accordance with the plan Brett had thought out. She expected the Granges to arrive at any moment; she did not know they were hiding upstairs. Brett’s plan was that she and the Granges should discover the body. That would clear her of suspicion of complicity in the tragedy. Marsland came to the house, and for Miss Maynard’s purpose he suited her better than the Granges because he took on himself the discovery of the body and, at her request, kept her name out of it to the police. Brett disappeared that night, ostensibly on secret service work. His object was to shield his fiancée by directing suspicion to himself.”

  “I don’t think Brett is capable of such chivalry,” said Marsland.

  “It is a very ingenious theory, very ingenious, indeed,” said Gillett. “I don’t say that it is absolutely correct, Mr. Crewe, but the reconstruction is very clever. What do you say, Westaway?”

  “Very ingenious—very clever,” said the Sergeant. “Only it is no good asking me to believe that Miss Maynard did it; I could never bring myself to believe that she was capable of it. I have known her since she was a little girl. She is the daughter of a highly respected—”

  “We know all about that,” said Gillett impatiently. “But lots of highly respectable people commit murder, Westaway. Even among the criminal classes there are no professional murderers. I’ll see this young lady in the morning, Mr. Crewe, and let you know the result. I think I can promise that I’ll shake the truth out of her.”

  CHAPTER XXI

  Detective Gillett cycled across to Ashlingsea the following morning, after spending the night in Staveley as the guest of Inspector Murchison. The morning was clear, the downs were fresh and green beneath a blue sky, and the sea lapped gently at the foot of the cliffs. In the bay the white sails of several small boats stood out against the misty horizon. But Detective Gillett saw none of these things. His mind was too busily engaged in turning over the latest aspects of the Cliff Farm case to be susceptible to the influences of nature.

  He reached Ashlingsea after an hour’s ride and decided to call on Miss Maynard before going to the police station. The old stone house and its grounds lay still and clear in the morning sun. The carriage gates were open and Gillett cycled up the winding gravel drive. The house looked silent and deserted, but the shutters which protected the front windows were unclosed, and a large white peacock strutting on the lawn in front of the house uttered harsh cries at the sight of the man on a bicycle.

  The bird’s cries brought a rosy-cheeked maidservant to the front door, who stared curiously at Gillett as he jumped off his bicycle and approached her. A request for Miss Maynard brought a doubtful shake of the head from the girl, so Gillett produced his card and asked her to take it to her mistress. The girl took the card, and shortly returned with the announcement that Mrs. Maynard would see him. She ushered him into a large, handsomely furnished room and left him.

  A few minutes afterwards Gillett heard the sound of tapping in the hall outside the door. Then the door was opened by the maid who had admitted Gillett, and he saw an elderly lady, with refined features and grey hair, looking at him with haughty dark eyes. She was leaning on an ebony stick, and as she advanced into the room the detective saw that she was lame.

  “I wanted to see Miss Maynard,” said Gillett, making the best bow of which he was capable.

  “You cannot see my daughter.” She uttered the words in such a manner as to give Gillett the impression that she was speaking to somebody some distance away.

  “Why not?”

  “She is not at home.”

  “Where is she?”

  “That I cannot tell you.”

  “When will she return?”

  “I do not know.”

  “But, madam, I must know,” replied Gillett. “Your daughter has placed herself in a very serious position by the statement she made to the police concerning the Cliff Farm murder, and it is important that I should see her at once. Where is she?”

  “I decline to tell you.”

  “You are behaving very foolishly, madam, in taking this course. Surely you do not think she can evade me by hiding from me. If that is her attitude I will deal with it by taking out a warrant for her arrest.”

  “I must decline to discuss the matter any further with you.”

  Mrs. Maynard moved towards the bell as she spoke, as though she would ring for a servant to show the detective out of the house. Gillett, seeing that further argument was useless, did not wait for the servant to be summoned, but left the room without another word.

  He rode down to the Ashlingsea police station, with an uneasy feeling that his plans for the capture of Brett were not destined to work out as smoothly as he had hoped. It had seemed to him a simple matter then to see Miss Maynard in the morning, “frighten the truth out of her,” ascertain from her where her lover was hiding, and have him arrested as quickly as the telegraph wires could apprise the police in the particular locality he had chosen for his retreat. But he had overlooked the possibility of the hitch he had just encountered. Obviously the girl, in finding that Marsland had not been arrested, had begun to think that her plans had miscarried and had therefore decided to evade making any further statement to the police as long as she could.

  Gillett was hopeful that Sergeant Westaway, with his local knowledge, would be able to tell him where she was likely to seek seclusion in order to escape being questioned.

  He had not conceived the possibility of Miss Maynard having taken fright and disappeared from the town, because he deemed it impossible that she could have known that he was aware how she had tried to hoodwink the police. Yet that was the news that Sergeant Westaway conveyed to him when he mentioned the young lady’s name.

  “She left Ashlingsea by the last train from here last night—the 9.30 to Staveley, which connects with the last tra
in to London.”

  “What!” exclaimed the detective. “Do you mean to tell me you’ve let the girl slip out of your hands? Why the blazes didn’t you stop her from going?”

  “How was I to stop her?” replied the sergeant, in resentment at the imperative tone in which the detective spoke. “I didn’t get home from Staveley last night until nearly ten o’clock and after looking in here I went straight to bed. The station-master told me about an hour ago that she had gone. She came along just before the train started, and he put her in a carriage himself. He thought it a bit strange, so he mentioned it to me when I was down on the station this morning. I rang up Inspector Murchison in order to let you know, but he told me you’d left for here.”

  “She’s gone to warn Brett—she’s in London by now,” said Gillett. “The question is how did she get to know that I was coming over to see her this morning and expose the tissue of lies in her statement to you. How did she get to know that the game was up? You’ve said nothing to anybody, Westaway, about the conversation that took place last night at Sir George Granville’s house?”

  “Of course I’ve said nothing,” replied Sergeant Westaway. “She had gone almost before I got back here last night.”

  “It beats me,” said Gillett. “Who could have warned her?”

  He picked up the telephone book off the office table, and turned its leaves hurriedly. When he had found the number he wanted he took up the telephone and spoke into the receiver.