The house had been untenanted for some years, and was threatening to moulder into a picturesque decay when the Douglases took possession of it. This family consisted of only two individuals, John Douglas and his wife. Douglas was a remarkable man both in character and in person; in age he may have been about fifty, with a strong-jawed, rugged face, a grizzling moustache, peculiarly keen grey eyes, and a wiry, vigourous figure which had lost nothing of the strength and activity of youth. He was cheery and genial to all, but somewhat offhand in his manners, giving the impression that he had seen life in social strata on some far lower horizon than the county society of Sussex. Yet, though looked at with some curiosity and reserve by his more cultivated neighbours, he soon acquired a great popularity among the villagers, subscribing handsomely to all local objects, and attending their smoking concerts, and other functions, where, having a remarkably rich tenor voice, he was always ready to oblige with an excellent song. He appeared to have plenty of money, which was said to have been gained in the Californian goldfields, and it was clear from his own talk and that of his wife that he had spent a part of his life in America. The good impression which had been produced by his generosity and by his democratic manners was increased by a reputation gained for utter indifference to danger. Though a wretched rider, he turned out at every meet, and took the most amazing falls in his determination to hold his own with the best. When the vicarage caught fire he distinguished himself also by the fearlessness with which he re-entered the building to save property, after the local fire brigade had given it up as impossible. Thus it came about that John Douglas, of the Manor House, had within five years won himself quite a reputation in Birlstone.
His wife, too, was popular with those who had made her acquaintance, though, after the English fashion, the callers upon a stranger who settled in the county without introductions were few and far between. This mattered less to her as she was retiring by disposition and very much absorbed, to all appearance, in her husband and her domestic duties. It was known that she was an English lady who had met Mr Douglas in London, he being at that time a widower. She was a beautiful woman, tall, dark, and slender, some twenty years younger than her husband, a disparity which seemed in no wise to mar the contentment of their family life. It was remarked sometimes, however, by those who knew them best that the confidence between the two did not appear to be complete, since the wife was either very reticent about her husband’s past life or else, as seemed more likely, was very imperfectly informed about it. It had also been noted and commented upon by a few observant people that there were signs sometimes of some nerve-strain upon the part of Mrs. Douglas, and that she would display acute uneasiness if her absent husband should ever be particularly late in his return. On a quiet countryside, where all gossip is welcome, this weakness of the lady of the Manor House did not pass without remark, and it bulked larger upon people’s memory when the events arose which gave it a very special significance.
There was yet another individual whose residence under that roof was, it is true, only an intermittent one, but whose presence at the time of the strange happenings which will now be narrated brought his name prominently before the public. This was Cecil James Barker, of Hales Lodge, Hampstead. Cecil Barker’s tall, loose-jointed figure was a familiar one in the main street of Birlstone village, for he was a frequent and welcome visitor at the Manor House. He was the more noticed as being the only friend of the past unknown life of Mr Douglas who was ever seen in his new English surroundings. Barker was himself an undoubted Englishman, but by his remarks it was clear that he had first known Douglas in America, and had there lived on intimate terms with him. He appeared to be a man of considerable wealth, and was reputed to be a bachelor. In age he was rather younger than Douglas, forty-five at the most, a tall, straight, broad-chested fellow, with a clean-shaven, prize-fighter face, thick, strong, black eyebrows, and a pair of masterful black eyes which might, even without the aid of his very capable hands, clear a way for him through a hostile crowd. He neither rode nor shot, but spent his days in wandering round the old village with his pipe in his mouth, or in driving with his host, or in his absence with his hostess, over the beautiful countryside. ‘An easy-going, free-handed gentleman,’ said Ames, the butler. ‘But, my word, I had rather not be the man that crossed him.’ He was cordial and intimate with Douglas, and he was no less friendly with his wife, a friendship which more than once seemed to cause some irritation to the husband, so that even the servants were able to perceive his annoyance. Such was the third person who was one of the family when the catastrophe occurred. As to the other denizens of the old building, it will suffice out of a large household to mention the prim, respectable, and capable Ames and Mrs Allen, a buxom and cheerful person, who relieved the lady of some of her household cares. The other six servants in the house bear no relation to the events of the night of January 6th.
It was at eleven forty-five that the first alarm reached the small local police-station in the charge of Sergeant Wilson, of the Sussex Constabulary. Mr Cecil Barker, much excited, had rushed up to the door and pealed furiously upon the bell. A terrible tragedy had occurred at the Manor House, and Mr John Douglas had been murdered. That was the breathless burden of his message. He had hurried back to the house, followed within a few minutes by the police-sergeant, who arrived at the scene of the crime a little past twelve o’clock, after taking prompt steps to warn the county authorities that something serious was afoot.
On reaching the Manor House the sergeant had found the draw-bridge down, the windows lighted up, and the whole household in a state of wild confusion and alarm. The white-faced servants were huddling together in the hall, with the frightened butler wringing his hands in the doorway. Only Cecil Barker seemed to be master of himself and his emotions. He had opened the door which was nearest to the entrance, and had beckoned to the sergeant to follow him. At that moment there arrived Dr Wood, a brisk and capable general practitioner from the village. The three men entered the fatal room together, while the horror-stricken butler followed at their heels, closing the door behind him to shut out the terrible scene from the maid-servants.
The dead man lay upon his back, sprawling with outstretched limbs in the centre of the room. He was clad only in a pink dressing-gown, which covered his night clothes. There were carpet slippers upon his bare feet. The doctor knelt beside him, and held down the hand-lamp which had stood on the table. One glance at the victim was enough to show the healer that his presence could be dispensed with. The man had been horribly injured. Lying across his chest was a curious weapon, a shot-gun with the barrel sawn off a foot in front of the triggers. It was clear that this had been fired at close range, and that he had received the whole charge in the face, blowing his head almost to pieces. The triggers had been wired together, so as to make the simultaneous discharge more destructive.
The country policeman was unnerved and troubled by the tremendous responsibility which had come so suddenly upon him.
‘We will touch nothing until my superiors arrive,’ he said, in a hushed voice, staring in horror at the dreadful head.
‘Nothing has been touched up to now,’ said Cecil Barker. ‘I’ll answer for that. You see it all exactly as I found it.’
‘When was that?’ The sergeant had drawn out his notebook.
‘It was just half-past eleven. I had not begun to undress, and I was sitting by the fire in my bedroom, when I heard the report. It was not very loud – it seemed to be muffled. I rushed down. I don’t suppose it was thirty seconds before I was in the room.’
‘Was the door open?’
‘Yes, it was open. Poor Douglas was lying as you see him. His bedroom candle was burning on the table. It was I who lit the lamp some minutes afterwards.’
‘Did you see no one?’
‘No. I heard Mrs Douglas coming down the stair behind me, and I rushed out to prevent her from seeing this dreadful sight. Mrs Allen, the housekeeper, came and took her
away. Ames had arrived, and we ran back into the room once more.’
‘But surely I have heard that the drawbridge is kept up all night.’
‘Yes, it was up until I lowered it.’
‘Then how could any murderer have got away? It is out of the question. Mr Douglas must have shot himself.’
‘That was our first idea. But see.’ Barker drew aside the curtain, and showed that the long, diamond-paned window was open to its full extent. ‘And look at this!’ He held the lamp down and illuminated a smudge of blood like the mark of a boot-sole upon the wooden sill. ‘Someone has stood there in getting out.’
‘You mean that someone waded across the moat?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Then, if you were in the room within half a minute of the crime, he must have been in the water at that very moment.’
‘I have not a doubt of it. I wish to Heaven that I had rushed to the window. But the curtain screened it, as you can see, and so it never occurred to me. Then I heard the step of Mrs Douglas, and I could not let her enter the room. It would have been too horrible.’
‘Horrible enough!’ said the doctor, looking at the shattered head and the terrible marks which surrounded it. ‘I’ve never seen such injuries since the Birlstone railway smash.’
‘But, I say,’ remarked the police-sergeant, whose slow, bucolic common sense was still pondering over the open window. ‘It’s all very well your saying that a man escaped by wading this moat, but what I ask you is – how did he ever get into the house at all if the bridge was up?’
‘Ah, that’s the question,’ said Barker.
‘At what o’clock was it raised?’
‘It was nearly six o’clock,’ said Ames, the butler.
‘I’ve heard,’ said the sergeant, ‘that it was usually raised at sunset. That would be nearer half-past four than six at this time of year.’
‘Mrs Douglas had visitors to tea,’ said Ames. ‘I couldn’t raise it until they went. Then I wound it up myself.’
‘Then it comes to this,’ said the sergeant. ‘If anyone came from outside – if they did – they must have got in across the bridge before six and been in hiding ever since, until Mr Douglas came into the room after eleven.’
‘That is so. Mr Douglas went round the house every night the last thing before he turned in to see that the lights were right. That brought him in here. The man was waiting, and shot him. Then he got away through the window and left his gun behind him. That’s how I read it – for nothing else will fit the facts.’
The sergeant picked up a card which lay beside the dead man upon the floor. The initials V.V., and under them the number 341, were rudely scrawled in ink upon it.
‘What’s this?’ he asked, holding it up.
Barker looked at it with curiosity.
‘I never noticed it before,’ he said. ‘The murderer must have left it behind him.’
‘“V.V. 341.” I can make no sense of that.’
The sergeant kept turning it over in his big fingers.
‘What’s V.V.? Somebody’s initials, maybe. What have you got there, Dr Wood?’
It was a good-sized hammer which had been lying upon the rug in front of the fireplace – a substantial, workmanlike hammer. Cecil Barker pointed to a box of brass-headed nails upon the mantelpiece.
‘Mr Douglas was altering the pictures yesterday,’ he said. ‘I saw him myself standing upon that chair and fixing the big picture above it. That accounts for the hammer.’
‘We’d best put it back on the rug where we found it,’ said the sergeant, scratching his puzzled head in his perplexity. ‘It will want the best brains in the force to get to the bottom of this thing. It will be a London job before it is finished.’ He raised the hand-lamp and walked slowly round the room. ‘Halloa!’ he cried, excitedly, drawing the window curtain to one side. ‘What o’clock were those curtains drawn?’
‘When the lamps were lit,’ said the butler. ‘It would be shortly after four.’
‘Someone has been hiding here, sure enough.’ He held down the light, and the marks of muddy boots were very visible in the corner. ‘I’m bound to say this bears out your theory, Mr Barker. It looks as if the man got into the house after four, when the curtains were drawn, and before six, when the bridge was raised. He slipped into this room because it was the first that he saw. There was no other place where he could hide, so he popped in behind this curtain. That all seems clear enough. It is likely that his main idea was to burgle the house, but Mr Douglas chanced to come upon him, so he murdered him and escaped.’
‘That’s how I read it,’ said Barker. ‘But, I say, aren’t we wasting precious time? Couldn’t we start out and scour the country before the fellow gets away?’
The sergeant considered for a moment.
‘There are no trains before six in the morning, so he can’t get away by rail. If he goes by road with his legs all dripping, it’s odds that someone will notice him. Anyhow, I can’t leave here myself until I am relieved. But I think none of you should go until we see more clearly how we all stand.’
The doctor had taken the lamp and was narrowly scrutinizing the body.
‘What’s this mark?’ he asked. ‘Could this have any connection with the crime?’
The dead man’s right arm was thrust out from his dressing-gown and exposed as high as the elbow. About halfway up the forearm was a curious brown design, a triangle inside a circle, standing out in vivid relief upon the lard-coloured skin.
‘It’s not tattooed,’ said the doctor, peering through his glasses. ‘I never saw anything like it. The man has been branded at some time, as they brand cattle. What is the meaning of this?’
‘I don’t profess to know the meaning of it,’ said Cecil Barker; ‘but I’ve seen the mark on Douglas any time this last ten years.’
‘And so have I,’ said the butler. ‘Many a time when the master has rolled up his sleeves I have noticed that very mark. I’ve often wondered what it could be.’
‘Then it has nothing to do with the crime, anyhow,’ said the sergeant. ‘But it’s a rum thing all the same. Everything about this case is rum. Well, what is it now?’
The butler had given an exclamation of astonishment, and was pointing at the dead man’s outstretched hand.
‘They’ve taken his wedding-ring!’ he gasped.
‘What!’
‘Yes, indeed! Master always wore his plain gold wedding-ring on the little finger of his left hand. That ring with the rough nugget on it was above it, and the twisted snake-ring on the third finger. There’s the nugget, and there’s the snake, but the wedding-ring is gone.’
‘He’s right,’ said Barker.
‘Do you tell me,’ said the sergeant, ‘that the wedding-ring was below the other?’
‘Always!’
‘Then the murderer, or whoever it was, first took off this ring you call the nugget-ring, then the wedding-ring, and afterwards put the nugget-ring back again.’
‘That is so.’
The worthy country policeman shook his head.
‘Seems to me the sooner we get London on to this case the better,’ said he. ‘White Mason is a smart man. No local job has ever been too much for White Mason. It won’t be long now before he is here to help us. But I expect we’ll have to look to London before we are through. Anyhow, I’m not ashamed to say that it is a deal too thick for the likes of me.’
4
Darkness
At three in the morning the chief Sussex detective, obeying the urgent call from Sergeant Wilson, of Birlstone, arrived from headquarters in a light dog-cart behind a breathless trotter. By the five-forty train in the morning he had sent his message to Scotland Yard, and he was at the Birlstone station at twelve o’clock to welcome us. Mr White Mason was a quiet, comfortable-looking person, in a loose tweed suit, with a clean-shaven, ruddy face,
a stoutish body, and powerful bandy legs adorned with gaiters, looking like a small farmer, a retired game-keeper, or anything upon earth except a very favourable specimen of the provincial criminal officer.
‘A real downright snorter, Mr MacDonald,’ he kept repeating. ‘We’ll have the pressmen down like flies when they understand it. I’m hoping we will get our work done before they get poking their noses into it and messing up all the trails. There has been nothing like this that I can remember. There are some bits that will come home to you, Mr Holmes, or I am mistaken. And you also, Dr Watson, for the medicos will have a word to say before we finish. Your room is at the Westville Arms. There’s no other place, but I hear that it is clean and good. The man will carry your bags. This way, gentlemen, if you please.’
He was a very bustling and genial person, this Sussex detective. In ten minutes we had all found our quarters. In ten more we were seated in the parlour of the inn and being treated to a rapid sketch of those events which have been outlined in the previous chapter. MacDonald made an occasional note, while Holmes sat absorbed with the expression of surprised and reverent admiration with which the botanist surveys the rare and precious bloom.
‘Remarkable!’ he said, when the story was unfolded. ‘Most remarkable! I can hardly recall any case where the features have been more peculiar.’
‘I thought you would say so, Mr Holmes,’ said White Mason, in great delight. ‘We’re well up with the times in Sussex. I’ve told you now how matters were, up to the time when I took over from Sergeant Wilson between three and four this morning. My word, I made the old mare go! But I need not have been in such a hurry as it turned out, for there was nothing immediate that I could do. Sergeant Wilson had all the facts. I checked them and considered them, and maybe added a few on my own.’
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