David Hume’s Story
Brett closed the book with a snap.
“What good purpose can it serve at this time to reopen the miserable story?” he asked.
Curiously enough, Hume paid no heed to the question. His lips quivered, his nostrils twitched, and his eyes shot strange gleams. He caught the back of his chair with both hands in a grasp that tried to squeeze the tough oak.
“What else have you written there?” he said, and Brett could not help but admire his forced composure.
“Nothing of any material importance. You were arrested, after an interval of some days, as the result of a coroner’s warrant. You explained that you had a vivid dream, in which you saw your cousin stabbed by a stranger whom you did not know, whose face even you never saw. Sir Alan was undoubtedly murdered. The dagger-like attachment to your Japanese sword had been driven into his breast up to the hilt, actually splitting his heart. To deliver such a blow, with such a weapon, required uncommon strength and skill. I think I describe it here as ‘un-English.’”
Brett referred to his scrap-book. In spite of himself, he felt all his old interest reawakening in this remarkable crime.
“Yes?” queried Hume.
The barrister, his lips pursed up and critical, surveyed his concluding notes.
“You were tried at the ensuing Assizes, and the jury disagreed. Your second trial resulted in an acquittal, though the public attitude towards you was dubious. The judge, in summing up, said that the evidence against you ‘might be deemed insufficient.’ In these words he conveyed the popular opinion. I see I have noted here that Miss Margaret Hume-Frazer was at a Covent Garden Fancy Dress Ball on the night of the murder. But the tragic deaths of her father and brother had a marked influence on the young lady. She, of course, succeeded to the estates, and decided at once to live at Beechcroft. Does she still live there?”
“Yes. I am told she is distinguished for her charity and good works. She is married.”
“Ah! To whom?”
“To an Italian, named Giovanni Capella.”
“His stage name?”
“No; he is really an Italian.”
Brett’s pleasantry was successful in its object. David Hume regained his equanimity and sat down again. After a pause he went on:
“May I ask, Mr. Brett, before I tell you my part of the story, if you formed any theories as to the occurrence at the time?”
The barrister consulted his memoranda. Something that met his eyes caused him to smile.
“I see,” he said, “that Mr. Winter, of Scotland Yard, was convinced of your guilt. That is greatly in your favour.”
“Why?”
Hume disdained the police, but Brett’s remark evoked curiosity.
“Because Mr. Winter is a most excellent officer, whose intellect is shackled by handcuffs. ‘De l’audace!’ says the Frenchman, as a specific for human conduct. ‘Lock ’em up,’ says Mr. Winter, when he is inquiring into a crime. Of course, he is right nine times out of ten; but if, in the tenth case, intellect conflicts with handcuffs, the handcuffs win, being stronger in his instance.”
Hume was in no mood to appreciate the humours of Scotland Yard, so the other continued:
“The most telling point against you was the fact that not only the butler, footman, and two housemaids, but you yourself, at the coroner’s inquest, swore that the small Japanese knife was in its sheath during the afternoon; indeed, the footman said it was there, to the best of his belief, at midnight. Then, again, a small drawer in Sir Alan’s writing-table had been wrenched open whilst you were alone in the room. On this point the footman was positive. Near the drawer rested the sword from which its viperish companion had been abstracted. Had not the butler found Sir Alan’s body, still palpitating, and testified beyond any manner of doubt that you were apparently sleeping in the library, you would have been hanged, Mr. Hume.”
“Probably.”
“The air of probability attending your execution would have been most convincing.”
“Is my case, then, so desperate?”
“You cannot be tried again, you know.”
“I do not mean that. I want to establish my innocence; to compel society to reinstate me as a man profoundly wronged; above all, to marry the woman I love.”
Brett amused himself by rapidly projecting several rings of smoke through a large one.
“So you really are innocent?” he said, after a pause.
David Hume rose from his chair, and reached for his hat, gloves, and stick.
“You have crushed my remaining hope of emancipation,” he exclaimed bitterly. “You have the repute of being able to pluck the heart out of a mystery, Mr. Brett, so when you assume that I am guilty—”
“I have assumed nothing of the kind. You seem to possess the faculty of self-control. Kindly exercise it, and answer my questions, Did you kill your cousin?”
“No.”
“Who did kill him?”
“I do not know.”
“Do you suspect anybody?”
“Not in the remotest degree.”
“Did he kill himself?”
“That theory was discussed privately, but not brought forward at the trial. Three doctors said it was not worthy of a moment’s consideration.”
“Well, you need not shout your replies, and I would prefer to see you comfortably seated, unless, of course, you feel more at ease near the door.”
A trifle shamefacedly, Hume returned to his former position near the fireplace—that shrine to which all the household gods do reverence, even in the height of summer. It is impossible to conceive the occupants of a room deliberately grouping themselves without reference to the grate.
Brett placed the open scrap-book on his knees, and ran an index finger along underlined passages in the manner of counsel consulting a brief.
“Why did you give your cousin this sword?”
“Because he told me he was making a collection of Japanese arms, and I remarked that my grandfather on my mother’s side, Admiral Cunningham, had brought this weapon, with others, from the Far East. It lay for fifty years in our gun-room at Glen Tochan.”
“So you met Sir Alan soon after his return home?”
“Yes, in London, the day he arrived. Came to town on purpose, in fact. Afterwards I travelled North, and he went to Beechcroft.”
“How long afterwards? Be particular as to dates.”
“It is quite a simple matter, owing to the season. Alan reached Charing Cross from Brindisi on December 20. We remained together—that is, lived at the same hotel, paid calls in company, visited the same restaurants, went to the same theatres—until the night of the 23rd, when we parted. It is a tradition of my family that the members of it should spend Christmas together.”
“A somewhat unusual tradition in Scotland, is it not?”
“Yes, but it was my mother’s wish, so my father and I keep the custom up.”
“Your father is still living?”
“Yes, thank goodness!”
“He is now the sixth baronet?”
“He is not. Neither he nor I will assume the title while the succession bears the taint of crime.”
“Did you quarrel with your cousin in London?”
“Not by word or thought. He seemed to be surprised when I told him of my engagement to Helen, but he warmly congratulated me. One afternoon he was a trifle short-tempered, but not with me.”
“Tell me about this.”
“His sister is, or was then, a rather rapid young lady. She discovered that certain money-lenders would honour her drafts on her brother, and she had been going the pace somewhat heavily. Alan went to see her, told her to stop this practice, and sent formal notice to the same effect through his solicitors to the bill discounters. It annoyed him, not on account of the money, but that his sister should act in such a way,”
“Ah, this is important! It was not mentioned at the trial.”
“Why should it be?”
“Who can say? I wish to goodness I had helped your butler to raise Sir Alan’s lifeless body. But about this family dispute. Was there a scene—tears, recriminations?”
“Not a bit. You don’t know Rita. We used to call her Rita because, as boys, we teased her by saying her name was Margharita, and not Margaret”
“Why?”
“She has such a foreign manner and style.”
“How did she acquire them?”
“She was a big girl, six years old, and tall for her age, when her parents settled down in England. She first spoke Italian, and picked up Italian ways from her nurse, an old party who was devotedly attached to her. Even Alan was a good Italian linguist, and given to foreign manners when a little chap. But Harrow soon knocked them out of him. Rita retained them.”
“I see. A curious household. I should have expected this young lady to upbraid her brother after the style of the prima donna in grand opera.”
“No. He told me she laughed at him, and invited him to witness the trying on of a fancy dress costume, the ‘Queen of Night,’ which she wore at a bal masqué the night he was murdered.”
“When did she get married?”
“Last January, at Naples, very suddenly, and without the knowledge of any of her relatives.”
“She had been living at Beechcroft nearly a year, then?”
“Yes, she went South in the winter. The reason she gave was that the Hall would be depressing on the anniversary of her brother’s death. She had become most popular in the district. Helen is very fond of her, and was quite shocked to hear of her marriage. The local people do not like Signor Capella.”
“Why?”
“It is difficult to give a reason. Miss Layton does not indulge in details, but that is the impression I gather from her letters.”
Hume paused, and Brett shot a quick glance at him.
“Finish what you were going to say,” he said.
“Only this—Helen and I have mutually released each other from our engagement, and in the same breath have refused to be released. That is, if you understand—”
The barrister nodded.
“The result is that we are both thoroughly miserable. Our respective fathers do not like the idea of our marriage under the circumstances. We are simply drifting in the feeble hope that some day a kindly Providence will dissipate the cloud that hangs over me. Ah, Mr. Brett, I am a rich man. Command the limits of my fortune, but clear me. Prove to Helen that her faith in my innocence is justified.”
“For goodness’ sake light another cigarette,” snapped the barrister. “You have interfered with my line of thought. It is all wriggly.”
Quite a minute elapsed before he began again.
“What caused the trouble at Mrs. Eastham’s ball?”
“I think I can explain that. It seems that Alan’s father told him to get married—”
“Told him!”
“Well, left instructions.”
“How?”
“I do not know. I only gathered as much from my cousin’s remarks. Well, it was not until his final home-coming that he realised what a beautiful woman the jolly little girl he knew as a boy had developed into. She was just the kind of wife he wanted, and I fancy he imagined I had stolen a march on him. But he was a thoroughly straightforward, manly fellow, and something very much out of the common must have upset him before he vented his anger on me and Helen.”
“Have you any notion—”
“Not the least. Pardon me. I suppose you were going to ask if I guessed the cause?”
“Yes.”
“It is quite unfathomable. We parted the best of friends in London, although he knew all about the engagement. We met again at 6 p.m. on New Year’s Eve, and he was very short with me. I can only vaguely assume that some feeling of resentment had meanwhile been working up in him, and it found expression during his chat with Helen in the conservatory.”
“Did you use threats to him during the subsequent wrangle?”
“Threats! Good gracious, no. I was angry with him for spoiling Miss Layton’s enjoyment. I called him an ass, and said that he had better have remained away another year than come back and make mischief. That is all. Mrs. Eastham was far more outspoken.”
“Indeed. What did she say?”
“She hinted that his temper was a reminiscence of his Southern birth, always a sore point with him, and contrasted me with him, to his disadvantage. All very unfair, of course, but, you see, she was the hostess, and Alan had upset her party very much.”
“So you walked home, and resolved to hold out the olive branch?”
“Most decidedly. I was older, perhaps a trifle more sedate. I knew that Helen loved me. There were no difficulties in the way of our marriage, which was arranged for the following spring. Indeed, my second trial took place on the very date we had selected. It was my duty to use poor Alan gently. Even his foolish and unreasonable jealousy was a compliment.”
Brett threw the scrap-book on to the table. He clasped his hands in front of his knees, tucking his heels on the edge of his chair.
“Mr. Hume,” he said slowly, gazing fixedly at the other, “I believe you. You did not kill your cousin.”