by Sapper
Ronald gently replaced the sacks over the dead man.
“What a ghastly tragedy, Mr Ardingley. As you say, one can hardly believe it.”
“To think that I should actually have alluded to sleepwalking last night. And then for this to happen. Get a hurdle, Rogers, and carry Sir Hubert into the house. I must go and telephone for a doctor: the death certificate will have to be signed.”
He went indoors, and Ronald and I, with a last look at the motionless figure, turned away.
“It’s amazing, Bill,” said Ronald after a while. “And the more I think of it the more amazing does it seem. That Hubert came here in his sleep is easy to understand: there have been cases of people walking miles in that condition. But being killed by an animal is not an instantaneous death. So why on earth didn’t he wake up while it was happening and yell the place down?”
And it was at that moment I remembered the man I had seen standing under the tree. I told Ronald about it and he stopped and stared at me.
“You’re sure of that?” he said.
“Positive,” I answered. “Though I don’t see that it can have any bearing on the matter. It might even have been Hubert himself.”
He walked on slowly with a deep frown on his forehead.
“Why didn’t he wake, Bill? Why didn’t he wake?”
Again and again he harped back to the point, and when I suggested that possibly he had, and that Rogers had slept through his calls for help, he shook his head irritably.
“It’s unthinkable,” he cried. “A man who is being mauled to death by a hound would wake the dead.”
We had come to a corner of the stable yard, where some rabbits blissfully unconscious of the tragedy were having their morning meal.
“Wake the dead,” he repeated, as he stood watching them absent-mindedly.
“He evidently didn’t wake Rogers,” I retorted, feeling a little irritable myself. It certainly was strange, but the bald fact remained that that was what had happened. And that being so there was no more to be said about it.
“Terrible thing about the poor young master, sir.”
Another groom had joined us, and Ronald nodded.
“Ghastly,” he said. “Where do you sleep?”
“That’s my room up there, sir.”
He pointed to a corner of the building.
“And you heard nothing in the night?”
“The only thing I heard, sir, was a rabbit squealing. I reckons a stoat had got ’un.”
And then a puzzled look came over his face; he was staring at the hutch.
“Well, that be main queer. Where be Susan, the old doe? She were here last night. Couldn’t have been her I heard, for the stoat couldn’t have got her out through the wire, and she’d have been dead inside there.”
He scratched his head and recounted the rabbits.
“Five,” he said. “And Susan not there.”
He looked at us rather as if he thought we had abducted the lady. And somewhat to my surprise I noticed that Ronald seemed interested in this triviality.
“Do you look after them?” he asked.
“I feeds them, sir – yes.”
“And there were six there last night and only five this morning?”
“That’s right, sir. Susan’s gone. Knows her name, she does. Follows me like a dog across the yard. Susan! Susan!”
But no Susan appeared, and the groom departed still calling for her.
“The somnambulist who didn’t wake; the unknown man who watched the house; the rabbit that vanished.” Ronald lit a cigarette thoughtfully. “Are they three disconnected facts, Bill, or…?”
He fell into a brown study, and after a time I left him and went indoors. I knew the futility of speaking to him when he was in one of those moods. In the hall William Ardingley was talking to a stranger, whom I placed correctly as the doctor, and leaving them together I went upstairs to complete my toilet.
Ronald I could see walking down by the lake evidently sunk in thought. And much as I liked him I could not help a certain feeling of annoyance over his attitude. The whole thing was tragic enough as it stood without making a mystery where no mystery could exist. What was more likely than that the mastiff, with the first snap of his jaws, had severed Hubert’s jugular vein, and that to all intents and purposes death had been instantaneous? That would account for no sound having been heard.
It was the view that was taken by the doctor, who had completed his examination by the time I came down again. He was on the point of leaving and William Ardingley was standing by his car.
“There will be a few formalities, Mr Ardingley,” he was saying. “In view of the circumstances the police will have to come into the affair, and they will doubtless order the dog to be destroyed. But beyond that the whole thing is obvious. Sir Hubert was walking in his sleep, and unfortunately got within reach of the mastiff which killed him. The oppressive weather last night may have made it more savage. Once again – my deepest sympathy.”
He drove off just as Ronald came up, and a glance at my friend’s face told me that he was still not satisfied. But when he spoke to our host there were no signs of it in his voice.
“You will naturally want us to clear out, Mr Ardingley,” he said. “As we came down in Hubert’s car perhaps we could have one a little later to take us to the station?”
“Of course, Standish. Whenever you like. But from what the doctor says there may be some police formalities. Had you not better wait for them?”
“I hardly think it is necessary,” said Standish. “Should they require to see us, or ask us anything, we can easily come down again. By the way, where have you put the body?”
“In the gun-room,” said Ardingley. “It is still on the hurdle.”
We walked indoors and our host went into the study leaving us in the hall.
“What about that man I saw,” I remarked. “Oughtn’t I to mention him?”
“Everything in due season, Bill,” he said gravely. “And this is the wrong one. I am either talking through my hat, or this is one of the most amazing crimes of modern times. Come into the gun-room.”
I followed him unwillingly: I had seen enough of that poor mangled body.
“Have you a large clean pocket handkerchief?” he asked, as he pulled back the sheet with which the dead man was now covered.
Completely mystified I produced one. And then, to my amazement, he carefully removed the blood-stained handkerchief from Hubert’s pyjama pocket and wrapped it up in mine. Then he replaced the sheet.
“No one is likely to notice that it has gone,” he said quietly, and without another word he led the way from the room and went upstairs.
The house, of course, was completely disorganised. Not that it mattered much, for no one could eat any breakfast when it did arrive. And at ten o’clock the car came for us and we started for the station. It was about four miles away and half-way there we met Violet Plessey driving a small two-seater. She stopped at once and we got out to speak to her.
“William has just telephoned through to me, Mr Standish,” she cried. “I simply can’t believe it.”
“It is only too true, I fear, Miss Plessey,” said Ronald.
“Walking in his sleep. How ghastly. Do you think he suffered much?”
“As he didn’t call out I should think not at all,” said Ronald, and a look of relief spread over her face.
“That would have been too dreadful,” she cried, and with that we left her.
“An enigmatic young woman,” said Ronald as we resumed our drive. “She and William should get on well.”
“What are you driving at?” I demanded.
“Even without the suffering it strikes me as being too dreadful,” he answered.
We arrived in London just before one, and Ronald at once dashed for a taxi, leaving me to take our kit in another.
“Wait for me at the club, Bill,” he said. “I may be a couple of hours.”
It was nearly three to be exact before I saw him
again, and I knew at once that further developments had taken place. Never have I seen him look so stern as he did when he sat down beside me.
“So I was not talking through my hat, Bill,” he said.
“Where have you been?” I asked.
“To the laboratory of the Middlesex Hospital,” he answered.
“And what have you found out there?”
“That the most cold-blooded murder I have ever come across in the whole of my career was committed at Petersdown Towers last night.”
“Good God!” I cried. “What are you going to do about it?”
“I have done already, as I came in. I’ve put through a long-distance call to Philip at Invergordon. I couldn’t get him, but I left an urgent message with one of his brother officers that Philip is to get in touch with me the instant he comes back to the ship.”
“But can’t you arrest the murderer now?”
“As I’ve often told you, Bill, there’s a lot of difference between knowing and proving. I propose to let the murderer arrest himself.”
“Who is he?”
“Need you ask? Mr William Ardingley. He was the man you saw standing under the tree last night. He was waiting for your light to go out. And all I’m wondering is to what extent Miss Violet Plessey is concerned with the matter.”
I felt a thrill of horror run through me: the thing seemed too monstrous to be possible. And yet I knew that Ronald was the last man on earth to make a statement of that sort unless he knew it was true. But when I asked him for further details he shook his head.
“All in good time, Bill,” he remarked. “You’ll know by to-morrow night at latest.”
The hours passed and he grew more and more fidgety.
“Why hasn’t Philip telephoned?” he said. “The officer I talked to said he’d gone ashore early this morning and was expected back at any moment.”
And then at last a page appeared to say that the call had come through and Ronald went to the box.
“It’s all right,” he said when he returned.
“It’s the same bloke I talked to before. Philip has had a wire from his uncle telling him of Hubert’s death, and he’s left in a car to catch the night mail farther south. He’s given him my message, and so he’ll be round to see me tomorrow morning before he goes to Petersdown Towers. And that being so there’s nothing more we can do at present.”
The evening passed with maddening slowness, and though I tried to play bridge I was quite unable to keep my mind on the cards. Hubert murdered – and by his uncle! I simply could not get it out of my head. It seemed like an incredible nightmare. And so it was to the intense relief of my partner that I refused to play another rubber and rose from the table just before eleven to see Ronald come rushing into the room like a man distraught.
“Come, Bill. Hurry, for God’s sake. Never mind your hat.”
He hurled himself into his car which was outside the door, and I fell in beside him. And that run will linger in my memory while I live. He drove like a madman, and how we were not killed a dozen times I do not know.
“Had another call from Invergordon,” he shouted above the roar of the car. “Man who motored Philip just returned… He missed train and chartered aeroplane… And he’s flown direct to Petersdown Towers… Tried to get him on the ’phone… Line out of order… Pray Heaven we’re not too late…”
The sentences came in jerks as with screeching brakes we skidded round corners.
“Never forgive myself… Last thing I anticipated… Have you got a gun?… Of course you haven’t… I have… There’s the house.”
The lodge gate was open, and we roared up the drive. The place was in darkness, but suddenly in the light of our headlamps there came a sight which froze the blood in my veins. Fifty yards in front of us by the corner of the stable a huge dog the size of a donkey was standing over something that lay on the ground. And even as we watched it shook something savagely. Then, alarmed by the lights, it lifted its great head and stared at us. We could see the huge slavering jaws, the heavy jowl; could see all its hackles come up as we ran towards it shouting. And then shot after shot into its skull from point blank range, till it sank down dead on top of Philip.
Men were appearing from everywhere as we pulled him out. His throat was torn, but he was still breathing though unconscious. And at that moment William Ardingley came on the scene.
“What has happened?” he cried in a shaking voice.
“Another case of sleepwalking,” said Ronald quietly. “And this time a rabbit would not have been necessary, you…murderer.”
The last two words seemed to pierce the night. A deathly silence settled on the group of servants, and for a space in which a man may count ten William Ardingley faced his accuser. Then with a quick movement he lifted his hand to his mouth, and a few seconds later his dark soul had passed before another tribunal.
It was many days later before Philip was fit enough to sit up and talk. His throat was still bound up, and he looked weak and ill, but all danger of blood-poisoning was past.
“Explain things, Ronald,” he said. “What made you suspect my uncle?”
“What I couldn’t understand, Philip, as I said all along, was the absence of noise. A man can do the most amazing things when he walks in his sleep, but it’s not difficult to wake him, though it may be dangerous. Therefore it seemed impossible to me that poor old Hubert had been sleepwalking. What, then, had he been doing? That he had walked there in pyjamas when awake was equally out of the question. So it boiled down to the fact that he must have been taken there. Now he couldn’t have been taken there while conscious; therefore he must have been drugged, and drugged so heavily that he would not wake even though he was being mauled by the mastiff.
“Then came the extremely interesting point about the rabbit. How had it escaped? The groom was positive it was there over-night; it was not there in the morning. Now a bizarre fact of that sort may be intensely important. He had heard a rabbit squealing, and had put it down to a wild one caught by a stoat. But to me it started another line of thought, which, though it seemed preposterous at first, was no more preposterous than the sleepwalking theory. And so I took Hubert’s handkerchief to a laboratory to have a test made.
“You know, of course, that there is a radical difference between human blood and the blood of animals or birds when viewed under the microscope. And I found, not altogether to my surprise, that the blood on the handkerchief was not human blood but might easily have come from a rabbit. And that one point established, it became clear that your brother’s death was no accident, but plain murder.”
Philip stared at him.
“It may have been clear to you,” he said, “but it certainly isn’t to me. Why on earth should there have been rabbit’s blood on the poor old chap?”
“Because your uncle had made one big mistake. When he drugged Hubert he gave him too much and actually killed him. And then, having dragged his body within reach of the mastiff, he found the dog wouldn’t touch it. No hound will touch a dead man. Which must have been a pretty nasty moment for Mr William Ardingley. The whole of his carefully thought out scheme had gone west. There was Hubert dead on the ground, and the mastiff refusing to do his bit. So your uncle had to do it instead. He gashed up Hubert’s throat with a knife – I didn’t mention it at the time, Bill, but the marks didn’t look to me as if the dog had made them – and once again found himself in a quandary. Your brother being dead the blood would hardly flow at all. So he got a rabbit and, having wounded it, let the blood run over Hubert. It was then the groom heard it squealing.”
“The infamous old swine!” cried Philip.
“Not a nice piece of work,” agreed Ronald. “However, it was obvious you would be the next victim. He would then become the baronet, and remain at Petersdown Towers. So I got through to you. I meant to put you wise over anything you might eat or drink – by the way, how did he drug you?”
“It must have been in a whisky and soda I had just before going
to bed,” said Philip.
“Probably. However, I was going to get you to pretend to be doped, and to allow him to drag you towards the kennel, when the police would have appeared on the scene and the case was complete. And then to my horror you came here before seeing me. By Jove, Philip, I’ve never had such a nerve-racking drive in my life! And I give you my word I could have shouted for joy when I saw that brute worrying your throat: it proved you were alive. But whether your uncle had purposely given you less, or whether you stood the same dose better than Hubert we shall never know.”
“Supposing Hubert hadn’t been dead when the hound smelt him,” I said. “What then? The blood would have been human.”
“True, Bill. But you can take it from me that even had that been the case Philip would not have spent his first night here alone. I just couldn’t swallow that sleepwalking explanation, though it would have been infernally difficult to prove it was wrong.”
“Amazing he should have the nerve to try it twice on successive nights,” said Philip.
Ronald shrugged his shoulders.
“The murderer’s mentality is a curious one,” he said. “Mark well – it had to be done quickly; he couldn’t in ordinary decency have kept that mastiff on here for long after it had apparently killed Hubert. And he probably thought he had a foolproof scheme. No one suspected him over Hubert; why should they over you? The tragedy had preyed on your nerves; what more natural for anyone at all addicted to walking in his sleep than to visit the scene of it? Touch and go, Philip, old lad; another two minutes and the title would have passed again. Though if it is any comfort for you to know, I can assure you the next holder would have been hanged as high as Haman.”
“By the way,” said Philip, “the Plesseys, père et fille, have departed suddenly.”
“It isn’t too easy to get dope,” remarked Ronald quietly. “And old Plessey was a doctor. One wonders.”
3: The Missing Valve
“One of the most extraordinary cases I have ever encountered, Bill,” said Ronald Standish to me. “And since a lady, who has, as yet, not appeared in it officially, is coming to consult me on the matter shortly I’d like to run over the facts, so far as they are known, before she arrives.”