The Beard of the Prophet

by Gerald Verner

  “This is Miss Travers’ room,” he whispered. “She’s downstairs in the drawing room at the moment. Come in.” He turned the handle softly, entered, and waited for the stout Superintendent to join him. “This is what I wanted to show you, sir,” he said in the same low tone.

  Going over to a wardrobe he opened it, pulled aside some dresses that were hanging neatly on hangers, and pointed. Mr. Budd stooped and peered in the direction of his finger. On the bottom shelf of the wardrobe were a number of shoes, but it was not these that caught his eye and riveted his attention. It was a square, iron weight that bore on the side a large 3, followed by the letters lbs.

  A three-pound weight that was covered with blood!

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  SUSPECTS NARROWED DOWN

  Mr. Budd stared at the sinister object for a second or two without speaking, then he looked at Murley.

  “How did you come to find this?” he asked.

  The butler passed the tip of his tongue over his dry lips.

  “The cook missed it, sir,” he said. “It’s usually kept in the kitchen. We use it as a doorstop. The door between the kitchen and the scullery is badly hung, and unless you have something to prevent it, it swings to of its own accord. Very inconvenient it is when you’re busy and in a hurry. We looked for it, but we couldn’t find it anywhere, although it had been there yesterday. It was Milly, the housemaid, who discovered it here. Miss Travers had spilt some grease on a pair of white shoes, and she gave them to Milly to try to get it off. When she came to put them back, she saw this and noticed the blood. She was scared and frightened, and told me. I made sure she hadn’t been imagining things, and came to find you, sir.”

  “Did she touch it?” asked Mr. Budd sharply.

  The butler shook his head.

  “I asked her that,” he said, “thinking of fingerprints.” He smiled faintly. “I read a lot of detective stories in my spare time,” he explained. “Never imagined that I’d have a crime on my own doorstep, so to speak.”

  “H’m!” grunted Mr. Budd. “You haven’t mentioned it to anybody else?”

  “No, sir. Only the servants know, of course.”

  “Well, go down and tell ’em to say nothing,” said the big man sharply.

  “You don’t think—?” The butler hesitated. “You don’t think Miss Travers could have—?”

  “I don’t think anythin’!” broke in Mr. Budd untruthfully, for he was thinking lots of things and very rapidly. “Go and do as I tell you.”

  Murley departed rather reluctantly, and when he had gone, the stout superintendent gingerly lifted the weight out of the wardrobe by the crossbar at the top. There was a magazine on the table by the bed, and this he brought over, placed it on the top of a dressing table by the window, and stood the weight on it.

  There was no doubt that this was the weapon that had struck that terrible blow which had killed old Reuben Hayles. The blood had dried, and in it were several grey hairs. And it had been found in Kathleen Travers’s wardrobe.

  He frowned at it, rubbing his massive chin. The girl had had the motive, but it was impossible to imagine that she could have had strength enough to wield such a heavy thing. Impossible to imagine it even if she could explain how she had done it.

  His mind went back to the previous night. He remembered her passing him ín the passage and going into her room. She had not come out again. How, if she was guilty, had she succeeded ín committing the murder?

  Back once more, he thought grimly, at the old problem. How? How? How?

  Was it possible there did exist some means of communication between this and Hayles’s bedroom? Some other entrance than the door and the window?

  Mechanically he shook his head. It was impossible! If there had been anything of the sort, the careful inspection that they had made would have revealed it. No, if Kathleen Travers was responsible for the death of her uncle, she had planned the crime with superhuman ingenuity, planned it so well that it was impossible to conjecture how she had done it.

  He tore the middle out of the magazine and carefully wrapped the weight on it. The girl would have to explain how that incriminating object had got where it had been found.

  He came out of the room softly, closed the door, and walked rapidly along the corridor. On the landing he met Geoffrey Dinwater coming up the stairs.

  “Hello!” said that vacuous young man. “How are things going? Have you discovered anything?”

  “Well, we’re followin’ up a line of inquiry,” said Mr. Budd evasively. “But we’ve got nothin’ definite yet.”

  “How did you get on with old Thane?” asked Dinwater.

  “He’s a queer fellow,” replied the big man. “But I don’t think there’s any harm in him.”

  “He’s queer enough,” remarked the other. “Got religious mania, or something. He came here once, and there was a devil of a row. Tried to show uncle the error of his ways. Said that all this opening of graves was sacrilegious, and that vengeance would certainly overtake him if he continued.”

  “He talked like that when I saw him,” said Mr. Budd. “But he’s loony! I’d like a word with you, Mr. Dinwater, in private.”

  The young man raised his eyebrows.

  “Come up to my room,” he said. “I was just going to do a little work.”

  Mr. Budd followed him up to the second landing and into a room at the beginning of the corridor, similar to the one below. It was an extremely untidy appartment, but more comfortably furnished than the other bedroom. An easy chair was drawn up near the grate, and a large table littered with books and papers stood in the window.

  “I’m rather keen on mathematics,” said Dinwater, waving his hand towards the table.

  “And on detective fiction, apparently, sir,” remarked Mr. Budd, eyeing a bookcase that was stuffed with a number of crime novels.

  Dinwater smiled.

  “That’s my relaxation,” he said. “You’ve got to have something after a course of higher mathematics. What did you want to see me about?”

  “I take it,” said Mr. Budd slowly, “that you live here permanently?”

  The other nodded.

  “Yes, that’s right,” he said. “Both Kathleen and I. Our mothers were Uncle Reuben’s sisters. They’re both dead now. The old man was very decent, he sort of adopted us.”

  “I see,” murmured Mr. Budd. “And you were always on friendly terms with him?”

  Dinwater eyed him keenly.

  “Look here,” he said, “what’s the idea behind these questions?”

  “Nothing, sir,” said Mr. Budd soothingly. “Just that I want to acquire all the information I can.”

  “Well, yes,” said the other. “Uncle was a little eccentric, but we got on with him fairly well. He was away a lot, of course.”

  “There was no trouble at all?” persisted the stout man.

  “Why? Why do you ask that?” asked Dinwater sharply. “Has somebody been talking? There was nothing in that. I dare say uncle would have come round in time.”

  Mr. Budd had no idea to what he referred, but he thought it best not to appear ignorant.

  “You think he would?” he said doubtfully.

  “Of course he would. He had nothing against the man. It was only that I think he was under the impression Kathleen was too young to consider marriage.”

  The fat detective felt a sudden quickening of his pulses. Here was something! But it had to be handled carefully or Dinwater as a source of information would dry up.

  “Well, maybe he was right,” he said.

  “I don’t know,” replied Dinwater frowning. “She’s of age, and surely entitled to choose her own husband.”

  “It depends upon the choice,” said Mr. Budd.

  The other nodded.

  “I believe you’re right,” he said. “I think that had a lot to do with the trouble. Uncle was queer and old-fashioned in many ways. He thought Tinsdale wasn’t—well, rich enough!”

  Now, who’s this feller Tinsdale
? thought Mr. Budd.

  “A doctor, especially a newcomer, hasn’t got much chance of a practice ín Liddenhurst,” went on Dinwater. “Although I think Arthur Tinsdale’s a clever fellow, and will make his way in the world. Who told you about the quarrel?”

  “I heard of it,” said the big man evasively.

  “That old cat, Annabel, I’ll bet!” grunted Geoffrey Dinwater. “The scandal-mongering old busybody! She made it worse by butting in and siding with uncle. That’s really what got Kathleen all worked up.” He lit a cigarette and flung the match into the grate. “You can take it from me,” he said, “that that’s got nothing to do with uncle’s death. Kathleen’s got a temper, but she doesn’t mean half she says. You’ll find this fellow Daniel Thane’s at the bottom of the whole business.”

  “Well, I shall be very glad to find someone at the bottom of the business,” remarked Mr. Budd wearily. “At the present moment I don’t see any bottom to it at all.”

  “No, it’s a pretty ticklish problem,” said Dinwater. “I’ve puzzled over it a lot. The difficulty is, of course, how the murderer escaped.”

  “And how he got in,” supplemented the fat man. “Yes that’s the difficulty, Mr. Dinwater. Maybe you can work it out mathematically?”

  The other looked at him seriously.

  “Maybe I can,” he said.

  “Well, if you do, you might let me know,” said Mr. Budd, and took his departure.

  He had learned something fresh and something important. There had been a quarrel between Kathleen Travers and her uncle over a doctor, Tinsdale, who, apparently, had a practice in Liddenhurst. Old Reuben Hayles had obviously objected to the marriage of these two. And Tinsdale was penniless.

  Here was a further motive for the girl to wish her uncle out of the way. With Hayles dead, she became the possessor of a large fortune, and the freedom to marry the man she wanted to. It was a strong motive, and coupled with that blood-stained weight, Milly, the maid, had discovered at the bottom of her wardrobe, was sufficient, in any ordinary circumstances, to warrant an arrest. But, and here Mr. Budd swore softly below his breath, but—how had she managed to do the impossible? And why had that false beard been found in the dead man’s hand?

  It was incredible to suppose that the girl had worn a beard, not only incredible but ludicrous. The big man had a strong sense of humour, and in his mind’s eye he could visualise Kathleen Travers with that atrociously obvious false beard. It was ridiculous!

  All the same, she had the motive, and the weapon had been found in her room. A thought struck him. Was it possible that this Doctor Tinsdale was guilty?

  Had he been the wearer of the beard? Were he and the girl in it together?

  This was probable. It was more than probable, if—and again the big man swore gently to himself—if it could be found how he had managed to do the impossible.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  MR. BUDD WORKS IT OUT

  The divisional inspector called after tea to inform Mr. Budd that the inquest had been fixed for the Tuesday morning, and to the astonished Hadlow, the big man related the further discoveries he had made.

  “It looks pretty serious for the girl,” commented the inspector when he had finished. “I know this man Tinsdale. Quite a respectable, hard-working young fellow. When he’s got any work to do,” he added. “He bought old Withers’s practice when he died. But I should think he was pretty nearly at the end of his tether. Most of the patients in the neighbourhood had only kept on with Withers out of sentimental reasons, and they were only too anxious of the excuse to go over to Johns. This place isn’t really big enough for two doctors, and Johns gets all the plums. I happen to know that Tinsdale owes money right and left. There’s certainly motive enough there, considering the money the girl’ll come into now Hayles is dead.”

  “There’s motive enough,” said Mr. Budd irritably. “It isn’t that that’s worrying me, Hadlow. It’s the method.”

  The inspector nodded.

  “Yes, that’s the stumbling block, sir,” he agreed. “I’ve thought and thought until my head aches, but I can’t see any explanation.”

  “That’s where our hands are tied,” muttered Mr. Budd. “We can’t do anythin’, Hadlow. We can’t arrest anybody until we can explain how they could have killed the old man. There must be somethin’ we’ve overlooked.”

  “I suppose”—the divisional inspector was a little diffident—“I suppose your sergeant didn’t fall asleep, or anything?”

  “No. I can vouch for him,” said the stout superintendent—an assertion that would have gratified Sergeant Leek immensely had he been there to hear. “If he says nobody came by the window, nobody did! Apart from which, I must have been in the room three seconds after the blow was struck. And the first thing I did was to go to the window. I should have seen anybody!”

  Hadlow shrugged his shoulders.

  “Well, there it is,” he said dubiously. “Somebody killed the old man, and they killed him with that weight. I suppose Dr. Scavage’s suggestion isn’t feasible at all?”

  “You mean that it was flung through the window?” said Mr. Budd, and shook his bead. “How far d’you think you could throw a three-pound weight, Hadlow? And how are you goin’ to get it back again after you’ve thrown it?”

  “It might have had a string attached to it, or something like that?” suggested the inspector, but again Mr. Budd shook his head. “You try pullin’ a three-pound weight out of an open window by a piece of string,” he said. “It would have fallen on the floor, and you’ve got to pull it up over the sill. It couldn’t be done.”

  “Well, it’s the only thing I can think of,” sighed Hadlow, “unless”—he smiled a little wanly—“that woman downstairs—Mrs. Gibber—was right, and it’s something more than the mind of man dreams of.”

  “Bosh!” said the stout man crossly. “Don’t you go gettin’ all spiritualistic and psychic. There’s a natural explanation, same as there is to anythin’, if we can only find it.”

  “If we can only find it!” echoed Hadlow dubiously.

  Mr. Budd rose to his feet with an unaccustomed access of energy, and his fist came down heavily on the table.

  “We’ve got to find it, and we’re goin’ to find it!” he declared. “There’s nothin’ that happens that isn’t possible of an explanation, and this has happened. We’ve got a dead man in the mortuary to prove it! And we’ve got a blood-stained piece of iron.”

  “And we’ve got a false beard,” murmured the divisional inspector.

  “And we’ve got a false beard!” agreed Mr. Budd. “And all we’ve got to do is to connect ’em up, You’ve got a man watchin’ Thane?”

  Hadlow nodded.

  “Well, you’d better put another on to watch Tinsdale, and a third to keep an eye on this house and see that nobody tries to do a bunk,” said Mr. Budd rapidly. “I don’t know anythin’ definite yet, but I’m not takin’ any chances. Maybe we’re all wrong. Maybe that feller Thane is at the bottom of the business. Maybe his disembodied spirit came in through the window, bashed old Hayles on the head, and slipped out through the keyhole! Maybe he employed Isis or Thor, or some of his queer friends, and got a spook to pop that weight into Kathleen Travers’ wardrobe. Maybe—” He stopped suddenly. “Maybe!” he ended in a peculiar voice.

  “What have you thought of?” asked Hadlow.

  The interview was taking place in the big main bedroom, and he stared thoughtfully at the foot of the bed.

  “I don’t know,” he said slowly, and his energy slid from him like a cloak, leaving him sleepy and lethargic. “I dunno. I’ve got somethin’ poppin’ in my head.”

  He became so absent and distrait from that moment that the divisional inspector curtailed his visit.

  “I shall be at the station if you want me,” he said, as Mr. Budd accompanied him down the stairs.

  “Maybe I will want you later,” murmured the stout man thoughtfully. “If I can find the ‘how’, I shall certainly want you.”

/>   “The how and the why,” said Hadlow; but the big man shook his head.

  “I think I’ve found the why,” he remarked. “Both the why and the who. Yes, I think I have. It’s the how that’s beating me. But maybe I’ll find that, too.”

  They had reached the deserted hall, and Hadlow glanced at the big grandfather clock that was solemnly ticking.

  “Good lord, I’d no idea it was so late!” he declared. “I’ve got an appointment at seven, and it’s nearly half-past six now. What’s the matter?”

  For Mr. Budd was staring at the clock as though he’d seen a ghost.

  “Eh?” The stout man turned. “Eh? What did you say?”

  “What were you staring at?” demanded the divisional inspector. “Did you see something?”

  “Yes, I saw somethin’,” agreed Mr. Budd, and there was a queer, excited note in his voice. “I saw somethin’. I think it’s likely you’ll be gettin’ that telephone call, after all.”

  * * * *

  Sergeant Leek, having been left to his own devices, elected to go for a walk. It was warm and pleasant, and the country surrounding the Manor House was worth exploring. He strolled along leafy lanes and broad highways, through woods and across commons, a lean, melancholy figure in his rather shabby suit of blue serge.

  In his own fashion he enjoyed himself, although no one seeing him would have imagined so for an instant. He had rather the appearance of having just left the funeral of some near and beloved relation. His long face wore an expression of settled melancholy, and his sad eyes surveyed the beauties around him without apparent enthusiasm.

  He found a little teashop on the outskirts of Liddenhurst, and came back in the calm of the evening while the church bells were ringing, fervently hoping that Mr. Budd had not been requiring him. But when he reached the Manor House there was no sign of the big man. He was not in his bedroom, and he was not in the grounds. He appeared to have disappeared.

  Dinner was over, for which the sergeant was thankful. These meals in which you all sat round the table and stared at one another embarrassed him. He liked eating alone and in comfort. He had brought in a packet of sandwiches, and, going to his room, he munched them comfortably.