Unravelled Knots

by Baroness Emmuska Orczy Orczy

"Of course, you always know," I remarked dryly.

"Nearly always," he replied, with ludicrous self-complacence. "Have I not proved to you over and over again that with a little reasonable common-sense and a minimum of logic there is no such thing as an impenetrable mystery in criminology. Criminology is an exact science to which certain rules of reasoning invariably apply. The trouble is that so few are masters of logic and that fewer still know how to apply its rules. Now take the case of that poor girl, Janet Smith. We are likely to see some startling developments in it within the next two or three days. You'll see if we don't, and they will open the eyes of the police and public alike to what has been clear as daylight to me ever since the first day of the inquest."

I hastened to assure the whimsical creature that though I was acquainted with the main circumstances of the tragedy, I was very vague as to detail, and that nothing would give me greater pleasure than that he should enlighten my mind on the subject—which he immediately proceeded to do.

"You know Broxmouth, don't you?" he began, after a while—"on the Wessex coast. It is a growing place, for the scenery is superb, and the air acts on jaded spirits like sparkling wine. The only drawback—that is, from an artistic point of view—to the place is that hideous barrack-like building on the West Cliff. It is a huge industrial school recently erected and endowed by the trustees of the Woodforde bequest for the benefit of sons of temporary officers killed in the war, and is under the presidency of no less a personage than General Sir Arkwright Jones, who has a whole alphabet after his name.

"The building is certainly an eyesore, and before it came into being, Broxmouth was a real beauty spot. If you have ever been there, you will remember that fine walk along the edge of the cliffs, at the end of which there is a wonderful view as far as the towers of Barchester Cathedral. It is called the Lovers' Walk, and is patronised by all the young people in the neighbourhood. They find it romantic as well as exhilarating: the objective is usually Kurtmoor, where there are one or two fine hotels for plutocrats in search of rural surroundings, and where humble folk like you and I and the aforesaid lovers can get an excellent cup of tea at the Wheatsheaf in the main village street.

"But it is a daylight walk, for the path is narrow and in places the cliffs fall away, sheer and precipitous, to the water's edge, whilst loose bits of rock have an unpleasant trick of giving way under one's feet. If you were to consult one of the Broxmouth gaffers on the advisability of taking a midnight walk to Kurtmoor, he would most certainly shake his head and tell you to wait till the next day and take your walk in the morning. Accidents have happened there more than once, though Broxmouth holds its tongue about that. Rash pedestrians have lost their footing and tumbled down the side of the cliff before now, almost always with fatal results.

"And so, when a couple of small boys hunting for mussels at low tide in the early morning of May fifth last, saw the body of a woman lying inanimate upon the rocks at the foot of the cliffs, and reported their discovery to the police, every one began by concluding that nothing but an accident had occurred, and went on to abuse the town Council for not putting up along the more dangerous portions of the Lovers' Walk some sort of barrier as a protection to unwary pedestrians.

"Later on, when the body was identified as that of Miss Janet Smith, a well-known resident of Broxmouth, public indignation waxed high: the barrier along the edge of the Lovers' Walk became the burning question of the hour. But during the whole of that day the 'accident' theory was never disputed; it was only towards evening that whispers of 'suicide' began to circulate, to be soon followed by the more ominous ones of 'murder.'

"And the next morning Broxmouth had the thrill of its life when it became known throughout the town that Captain Franklin Marston had been detained in connection with the finding of the body of Janet Smith, and that he would appear that day before the magistrate on a charge of murder.

"Properly to appreciate the significance of such an announcement, it would be necessary to be oneself a resident of Broxmouth where the Woodforde Institute, its affairs and its personnel are, as it were, the be-all and end-all of all the gossip in the neighbourhood. To begin with the deceased was head matron of the institute, and the man now accused of the foul crime of having murdered her was its secretary; moreover the secretary and the pretty young matron were known to be very much in love with one another, and, as a matter of fact, Broxmouth had of late been looking forward to a very interesting wedding. The idea of Captain Marston—who by the way was very good-looking, very smart, and a splendid tennis player—being accused of murdering his sweetheart was in itself so preposterous, so impossible, that his numerous friends and many admirers were aghast and incredulous. 'There is some villainous plot here somewhere,' the ladies averred, and wanted to know what Major Gubbins's attitude was going to be under these tragic circumstances.