The Hand in the Dark

by Arthur J. Rees

"Before you say anything more it is my duty to inform you of my own connection with the case," said Colwyn. "There has been an arrest for the murder, as no doubt you are aware, but the family are not satisfied that the right person has been arrested. You are suspected."

"Do they think that I murdered Violet? Oh, I never dreamt of this," he added, as Colwyn remained silent. "I thought that you and the police were searching for me because of the necklace. It is even worse than I thought. I will now tell you all. Perhaps you will then help me, for I am innocent."

Until that moment he had flung out his protestations with an excited impetuosity which told of a mind suffering under a grievous burden, though it was impossible to determine whether that state of feeling arose from anxiety or conscious guilt. His quietness now was in the oddest contrast. It was as though he had been sobered by his realization of the difficulty of convincing an outsider of his innocence of a foul crime in which he was deeply entangled by an appalling web of circumstance.

He began by explaining, vaguely enough, his past friendship with the murdered girl. He had first met her in London two years before. Their relations, as he depicted them, conveyed a common story of a casual acquaintance developed in the familiar atmosphere of secluded restaurants, with dances and theatres later on. His story of this phase had all the familiar elements which make up the setting of a modern sophisticated love episode, into which a man and a girl enter with their eyes open. In the masculine way, Nepcote refrained from saying anything which could hurt the dead girl's reputation, but it was his reticence and reservations which completed the story for his listener. He said that their flirtation ceased when Violet became engaged to Philip Heredith. On his own showing he then acted sensibly enough in a delicate situation, and was afterwards reluctant to accept the invitation to the moat-house. With one of his reticent evasions he slurred over his reason for changing his mind, but Colwyn guessed that it was due to the feminine disinclination to bury an old romance. Violet had probably written and asked him to come.

He conveyed to Colwyn a picture of the state of things existing at the moat-house when he arrived. It was an unconscious revelation on his part of a giddy shallow girl hastily marrying a wealthy young man for his money, quickly bored by the dull decorum of English country life, sighing for her former existence—for the gay distractions of her irresponsible London days. It seemed that in this frame of mind she welcomed Nepcote as a dear link with the past, and sought his society with a frequency which had its embarrassments. Of course there was nothing in it—Nepcote was fiercely insistent on that—she was bored, poor girl, and liked to talk about old times with her old friend, but it was awkward, devilish awkward, in a country house full of idle people and curious servants with nothing to do but use their eyes.

She had taken him aside to tell him of her little troubles. Miss Heredith did not think her good enough for Phil—she was sure she thought that. They had the vicar and old frumps in to tea, and she had to listen to their piffle. They all went to bed soon after ten—just when people were beginning to wake up in London and go out for the night. And she had to go to church on Sunday because it was expected of her, did he ever hear of such rot—and so on. It seemed that everything in her life bored her. Of course Phil worshipped her, but that didn't help her much. How could it, Nepcote asked, fixing his burning glance on his listener, when she had only married him for his coin?

It appeared he had given her such counsel as his worldly experience suggested. He told her to get Phil to take her up to London now and again for a change. He advised her to stand no nonsense from anybody, pointing out to her that she was the future Lady Heredith, and, within limits, could do practically what she liked.

These intimate details of the confidences between them brought Nepcote to the vital point of his possession of the necklace. He now admitted that his former story was untrue. The actual truth was that he had needed some money badly for his gambling debts. He told Violet of his position, and asked her had she any money to lend him. She had not, and rather than ask Phil, she had, for old friendship's sake, offered him her necklace to raise money on, or to sell outright the diamond in the clasp. He accepted her offer, and went up to London on the following day to try and sell the diamond. Wendover's card had been given to him by a brother officer in France as that of a man who gave a good price for jewels without asking too many questions. But the diamond merchant had not lived up to his reputation. He had refused to look at the diamond. He had been horribly rude, treating him as though he was a pickpocket, and had practically ordered him out of his office. In fact, his whole attitude was so suspicious that Nepcote decided it would be better to leave his gambling debts owing than run the risk of trying to raise money on a married woman's jewels. He returned to the moat-house, leaving the necklace locked in his desk at his flat.

At this point Nepcote ceased speaking again, interrupted by a paroxysm of coughing, and when it passed his eyes turned towards the window, as though he were listening to the gentle patter of rain on the panes. For a space the two men sat with no sound in the room except Nepcote's laboured breathing. When he did resume he spoke with a quickened emphasis, like a man aware that he was entering upon the part of his narrative most incredible of belief.

"It happened three nights later," he said. "I was in my room writing some letters before retiring, when I heard a light and hurried tap at my door. When I opened it Violet was standing there. She stepped quickly inside. Before I could express my opinion of her reckless foolishness she burst into passionate sobs and reproaches. It was all my fault—that was the burden of her reproach between her sobs. It was some time before I could get out of her what was wrong. Then she told me that Sir Philip had asked her to wear the necklace at some dance we were to attend on the next night. It was then that I learnt that the necklace had been given to Violet by Sir Philip as a wedding present. Violet attached such little value to the gift that she had given the necklace to me, thinking it would not be missed, but she had found out her mistake that night. It was in the presence of Phil and Miss Heredith that Sir Philip had asked her to wear it. Violet tried to get out of it by saying that the pearls were dull and the necklace wanted resetting. On hearing this Miss Heredith had gone out of the room and returned with Mr. Musard, an old family friend who had arrived that day on a short visit. He is a connoisseur in jewels, and Miss Heredith asked his advice about the necklace. Musard told her that the pearls had long needed some treatment technically known as "skinning," and he offered to take the necklace to London two days later and get it done by an expert. Violet accepted the offer, and then promised Sir Philip that she would wear the necklace at the party.