Mystery at Lynden Sands

by

J. J. Connington

Contents

Chapter I.
The Death at Foxhills

Paul Fordingbridge, with a faintly reproachful glance at his sister, interrupted his study of the financial page of The Times and put the paper down on his knee. Deliberately he removed his reading-glasses; replaced them by his ordinary spectacles; and then turned to the restless figure at the window of the private sitting-room.

“Well, Jay, you seem to have something on your mind. Would it be too much to ask you to say it—whatever it is—and then let me read my paper comfortably? One can't give one's mind to a thing when there's a person at one's elbow obviously ready to break out into conversation at any moment.”

Miss Fordingbridge had spent the best part of half a century in regretting her father's admiration for Herrick. “I can't see myself as Julia of the Night-piece,” she complained with a faint parade of modesty; and it was at her own wish that the hated name had been abbreviated to an initial in family talk.

At the sound of her brother's voice she turned away from the sea-view.

“I can't imagine why you insisted on coming to this hotel,” she said, rather fretfully. “I can't stand the place. Of course, as it's just been opened, it's useless to expect everything to go like clockwork; but there seems a lot of mismanagement about it. I almost burned my hand with the hot water in my bedroom this morning—ridiculous, having tap-water as hot as that! And my letters got into the wrong pigeon-hole or something; I had to wait ever so long for them. Of course the clerk said he was sorry—but what good does that do? I don't want his sorrow. I want my letters when I ask for them.”

“No doubt.”

“And there was a wasp in my room when I went up there a few minutes ago. If I'd wanted a double-bedded room with a wasp as a room-mate, I would have asked for it when we booked, wouldn't I? And when I rang the bell and told them to put the thing out, the chambermaid—so it seems—was afraid of wasps. So she had to go and get hold of someone else to tackle it. And meanwhile, of course, I had to wait about until my room was made habitable. That's a nice kind of hotel!”

“Oh, it has its points,” Paul Fordingbridge advanced soothingly. “One can get quite decent wine; and this chair's not uncomfortable.”

“I don't sit in a chair and drink wine all day,” his sister retorted, querulously. “And that jazz band downstairs is simply appalling—I can feel my ear-drums quiver whenever it starts playing.”

“It amuses the children, at least. I haven't heard Stanley or Cressida complaining about it yet; and they seem to dance most of the time in the evenings.”

“So like the younger generation! They get married—and they dance. And that's almost all you can say about them.”

“Oh, no. Let's be fair,” her brother corrected her mildly. “They both play bridge a good deal; and Cressida's not bad at golf. I can't say, taking her over all, that I'm ashamed of her as a niece. And Stanley's a great improvement on her first husband—that fellow Staveley.”

Miss Fordingbridge made a gesture of irritation.

“Oh, of course, everything's simply splendid, by your way of it. A fascinating niece, a nice-looking nephew-in-law, and a wonderful hotel to live in for a month or so; what more could one want? The only thing I can't understand is what this family party is doing in an hotel just now, when we've got Foxhills standing empty almost within a stone's-throw. You know how I hate hotels; and yet you won't reopen Foxhills and let us live there. What's the use in coming to Lynden Sands at all, if we don't stay at our own house and get privacy at least?”

Her brother's brows contracted slightly.

“Foxhills isn't going to be reopened. You know quite well the size of staff you'd need to run it properly; and I don't propose to pay on that scale merely in order to stay at Foxhills for a month or so and then shut it up again. Besides, Jay, this new golf-course has changed things a bit. I'm trying to let Foxhills; and if I got a tenant, we might have to clear out of the place before we'd got well settled down in it. This hotel and the new course between them are going to make Lynden Sands more popular before long. There's a fair chance of getting Foxhills leased.”

Miss Fordingbridge was manifestly taken aback by this information.

“You're trying to let Foxhills—our old house? Why, it isn't yours to let! It belongs to Derek.”

Paul Fordingbridge seemed to be flicked on the raw. There was a certain asperity in his tone as he replied.

“Whether it belongs to Derek or merely belonged to Derek is an open question. He hasn't turned up to let us decide the point one way or the other.”

He glanced at his sister's face and apparently read something in her expression, for he continued with a faint rasp in his tone.

“I thought I'd made the position clear enough to you already, but, as you don't seem to grasp it even yet, I'll go over it once more. But this must be the last time, Jay. I'm really tired of making the thing clear to you when you evidently won't take the trouble to understand how I'm placed.”

He paused for a moment, as though to put his facts in order before stating his case.

“Since this is the last time I'm going to discuss the thing with you, I'll go right back to the beginning; and you'll be good enough to give me your attention, Jay. I'm tired of the subject; and specially tired of explaining it to you, as you never listen.

“Under our father's will, the major part of the family property—including the Foxhills estate—went to his eldest son, brother John, on a life-tenancy. After John died, it was all to go without restrictions to the next eldest—brother Rufus, out in Australia—or to his son, Derek. Failing Derek, it was to go to the next eldest—Cressida's father; or, if he died first, then to Cressida. If she didn't live to come into it, then it fell to my share; and, finally, if we all died off, then you were to get it. Of course, he'd left each of us enough to keep us going comfortably in any case. Foxhills and the investments that went along with it were extras, over and above that. You see that part clearly enough, I suppose?”

Miss Fordingbridge nodded; but it seemed doubtful if she had given the narrative much attention. She appeared to be treasuring up some thought which made her brother's statement of little real interest to her. Paul glanced again at her face and seemed to hesitate slightly. He decided to continue.

“None of us had seen Derek until just before the war. Then he came to Foxhills for a while with us. You took to him more than I did. He seemed to me a very ordinary young fellow. Meanwhile, John came into his life-rent of the estate and the rest of the property, after our father died.

“Then came the war. Derek had a commission in some Australian regiment. We saw little of him, naturally. I wish we'd seen less. He brought home that friend of his, Nick Staveley, on leave; and he got round Cressida and married her—the worst day's work our family's done for a good while. Lucky for her that he got wiped out, that day when Derek was captured.”

Miss Fordingbridge winced at the name of her niece's first husband. Even after all these years, the very thought of Staveley had its sting for the family. Apart from this, however, she showed no interest in her brother's narrative, which was obviously an old tale to her, and important only as it concerned her brother's motives of action.

“Meanwhile, Rufus had a paralytic stroke out in Australia and died. Then, a little later, John got killed in that motor accident. Under the will, that left Derek in possession of the estate. I can't claim that I foresaw that exact state of affairs; but I'd been afraid of something of the sort happening. During the war, things needed a careful eye on them; and I didn't care to see Foxhills in the hands of lawyers. So before Derek went off to the Front, I got him to give me a power of attorney to deal with all his affairs. Are you listening, Jay?”

Miss Fordingbridge nodded absently. She still had the air of reserving a surprise for her brother.

“You know what happened next,” Paul Fordingbridge went on. “Derek was captured and sent to Clausthal. Almost immediately, he got away from there, and nearly scraped over the Dutch frontier. The Germans caught him there; and as a result he was sent on to Fort 9, at Ingolstadt. We know he got away from there—it must have been almost immediately, as we got no letters from him—and after that all trace of him was lost. Whether he got shot in trying to get over the frontier, or whether he lost his memory, or what happened to him, no one can tell. He's vanished, so far as we're concerned.”

Miss Fordingbridge repressed a faint smile, evidently with some difficulty; but her brother failed to notice the fleeting expression on her face.

“Now I want you to see the position that I'm left in, with all this muddle,” he went on. “Derek may be alive, or he may be dead, for all we know. If he's alive, then Foxhills belongs to him; and, until we have evidence of his death, that's the state of affairs. Meanwhile, with his power of attorney, I have to manage things, fix up the investments, get the best return I can on his money, and look after the up-keep of Foxhills. I daresay we could go to the Courts and ask leave to presume his death; but I think it's fairer to wait a while yet, before doing anything in that direction. He might turn up, in spite of everything.”

It was evident from his tone that he thought this contingency a most unlikely one, though not altogether impossible.

“In any case, I've got to do the best I can for his interests. That's why I propose to let Foxhills if I can find someone to take it on a short lease. We can't afford to let Derek's property stand idle—if it is his property. Besides, a place of that size is far better occupied. It's more or less all right just now, with old Peter Hay looking after it and living in the cottage; but it would be far better if we had someone living there permanently and keeping it heated. I'm afraid of dry-rot setting in sometime or other. Now, do you understand the state of affairs, Jay? Can't you see that's the best course to take?”

Miss Fordingbridge paid no attention to either query.

“I've listened to you,” she said, perhaps with a slight lapse from strict accuracy, “and now it's your turn to listen to me, Paul. It's no use your trying to persuade me that there's any doubt about Derek at all. I know perfectly well he's alive.”

Paul Fordingbridge made no effort to restrain his involuntary gesture of annoyance. Quite evidently he saw what was coming.

“Now, Julia, it's no use bringing up this stuff of yours again. I've told you fifty times already that I don't believe it in the slightest. Since you went in for this table-turning, and spirit-rapping, and planchette, and all the rest of the wretched business, you've hardly been sane on the subject. I daresay you adored Derek when he was here. No doubt you think you're justified in all this séance business, trying to get in touch with him, and the rest of it. But frankly, it leaves me as it leaves every other sensible person—completely sceptical.”

Miss Fordingbridge was evidently well-accustomed to this kind of reception when she broached the topic. She ignored her brother's protest and continued as though he had not interrupted her.

“I remember quite well how you laughed at me when I came back from that wonderful séance and told you how I had been assured that Derek was still alive. That was five years ago, but I can recall it perfectly. And I know it was true. And if you had been there yourself, and had heard it with your own ears, you'd have believed it too. You couldn't have disbelieved. It was far too convincing. After the medium went into a trance, the control spoke to me. And it told me all about Derek—what regiment he'd been in; when he was captured; how he'd disappeared; how anxious I'd been about him; and how we'd lost all trace of him. You'd have been quite convinced yourself, if you'd been there and heard it all.”

“I am quite convinced,” her brother replied drily. “That's to say I'm quite convinced that they'd looked up Derek's name in the casualty lists and got together all the data they could gather beforehand. I expect you gave away a good deal yourself by your questions, too. You're about the easiest person to pump, if one goes about it in the right way.”

Miss Fordingbridge smiled in a superior fashion, as though she knew that she held a trump card still.

“Would it convince you if I said that I'd seen Derek?”

“Some more of their confounded mummery? No, it wouldn't convince me. A child could deceive you, Jay. You want to be deceived. You can't bear the idea that Derek's dead—that's what vitiates this stuff that you dignify by the name of evidence.”

“Vulgar abuse never hurts a spiritualist. We're used to it,” Miss Fordingbridge replied with simple dignity. “But you're wrong as usual, Paul. It wasn't at a séance that I saw Derek. It was here, at Lynden Sands. And it was last night.”

From the expression on her brother's face it was clear that he hardly knew how to take this news.

“You saw him here, last night? In a dream, I suppose?”

“No, not in a dream. I met him by appointment down at that rock on the beach—the one we used to call Neptune's Seat. And I saw him close enough to make no mistake—as close as I am to you this moment. And I talked to him, too. It's Derek; there's no doubt about it.”

Paul Fordingbridge was evidently taken aback. This latest tale of his sister's seemed to have something more solid behind it than her earlier ventures.

“You said nothing to me about this. Why was that?”

Miss Fordingbridge recognised that she had scored a point and had startled her brother out of his usual scepticism. She had her answer ready.

“Naturally you'd hardly expect me to discuss a thing like that over the breakfast-table, with half-a-hundred total strangers sitting round and craning their necks so as to hear better? If you will insist on staying at hotels, you must put up with the results. This is the first time I've been alone with you since I met him.”

Paul Fordingbridge acknowledged the justice of her view with a nod.

“Quite so,” he admitted. “And you had a talk with this fellow, had you?”

Miss Fordingbridge's temper showed unmistakably in her tone as she replied.

“Kindly don't call Derek ‘this fellow,’ if you please. It's Derek himself. He talked to me for quite a long time—all about things that had happened at Foxhills when he was here before the War, and other things that happened at the times he was home on leave. And part of the time he told me about Clausthal and Fort 9, too.”

Her brother's scepticism again made itself evident.

“Plenty of people were in Fort 9 and at Clausthal besides Derek. That proves nothing.”

“Well, then, he mentioned a whole lot of little things as well. He reminded me of how Cressida dropped her bouquet when she was signing the register after her wedding. And he remembered which wedding march they played then.”

“Almost anyone in Lynden Sands could have told him that.”

Miss Fordingbridge reflected for a moment or two, evidently searching her memory for some crucial piece of evidence.

“He remembered that we used to bring up some of the old port from Bin 73 every time he went off to the Front. He said often he wished he could have had some of it just before zero hour.”

Paul Fordingbridge shook his head.

“One of the servants might have mentioned that in the village and he could have got hold of it. If you've nothing better than this sort of tittle-tattle to prove it's Derek, it won't go far.”

He reflected for a moment, then he asked:

“You recognised his face, of course?”

A flicker of repulsion crossed his sister's features.

“I saw his face,” she said. “Paul, he's horribly disfigured, poor boy. A shell-burst, or something. It's dreadful. If I hadn't known it was Derek, I'd hardly have recognised him. And he was so good-looking, in the old days. But I know it's Derek. I'm quite sure of it. That medium's control never makes a mistake. If Derek had passed over, she'd have found him and made him speak to me at that séance. But she couldn't. And now he's come back in the flesh, it shows there is something in spiritualism, in spite of all your sneers. You'll have to admit it, Paul.”

Her words had evidently started a fresh train of thought in her brother's mind.

“Did you recognise his voice?” he demanded.

Miss Fordingbridge seemed to make an effort to recall the tones she had heard:

“It was Derek's voice, of course,” she said, with a faint hesitation in her manner. “Of course, it wasn't quite the voice I'd been expecting. His mouth was hurt in those awful wounds he got. And his tongue was damaged, too; so his voice isn't the same as it used to be. It's husky instead of clear; and he has difficulty in saying some words, I noticed. But at times I could quite well imagine it was Derek speaking just as he used to do, with that Australian twang of his that we used to tease him about.”

“Ah, he has the twang, has he?”

“Of course he has. Derek couldn't help having it, could he, when he was brought up in Australia until he was quite grown-up? Last night he laughed over the way we used to chaff him about his accent.”

“Anything more about him that you can remember?”

“He's been dreadfully hurt. Two of his fingers were blown off his right hand. It gave me such a start when he shook hands with me.”

Paul Fordingbridge seemed to reflect for a moment or two on the information he had acquired.

“H'm!” he said at last, “It'll be difficult to establish his identity; that's clear. Face unrecognisable owing to wounds; voice altered, ditto; two fingers gone on right hand, so his writing won't be identifiable. If only we had taken Derek's fingerprints, we'd have had some sort of proof. As it is, there's very little to go on.”

Miss Fordingbridge listened scornfully to this catalogue.

“So that's all the thanks you give Derek for suffering so horribly for us all in the war?”

“Always assuming that this friend of yours is Derek. Don't you understand that I can't take a thing of this sort on trust? I'm in charge of Derek's property—assuming that he's still alive, I can't hand it over to the first claimant who comes along, and then, if Derek himself turns up, excuse myself by saying that the first fellow had a plausible yarn to tell. I must have real proof. That's simply plain honesty, in my position. And real proof's going to be mighty hard to get, if you ask me, Jay. You must see that, surely.”

“It is Derek,” Miss Fordingbridge repeated, obstinately. “Do you think I can't recognise my own nephew, when he's able to tell me all sorts of things that only we in the family could know?”

Her brother regarded her rather ruefully.

“I believe you'd go into the witness-box and take your oath that it's Derek,” he said, gloomily. “You'd made up your mind that Derek was coming back sooner or later; and now you're prepared to recognise anything down to a chimpanzee as your long-lost nephew, rather than admit you're wrong. Damn this spiritualism of yours! It's at the root of all the trouble. It's led you to expect Derek; and you mean to have a Derek of some sort.”

He paused for a moment, as though following out a train of thought; then he added:

“And it's quite on the cards that if it ever came before a jury, some chuckleheads would take your word for it. ‘Sure to know her nephew,’ and all that sort of stuff. They don't know your little fads.”

Miss Fordingbridge glanced up at the note of trouble in her brother's voice.

“I can't see why you're trying to throw doubt on the thing, Paul. You haven't seen Derek; I have. And yet you don't wait to see him yourself. You come straight out with a denial that it is Derek. And you say I've got a preconceived idea about the affair. It seems to me that you're the one with a preconceived notion. One would think you'd made up your mind already on the subject.”

Paul Fordingbridge acknowledged the counter-thrust.

“There's something in what you say, perhaps, Jay. But you must admit the whole business is a trifle unexpected. It's hardly taking the line one might expect, if everything were square and above-board. Let's assume that it is Derek, and then you'll see what a lot's left unexplained so far. First of all, it's years since the war. Why hasn't he turned up before now? That's a strange affair, surely. Then, when he does reappear, why doesn't he come to me first of all? I'm the person he left in charge of his affairs, and I should think his first step would be to communicate with me. But no, he comes down here unannounced; and he fixes up some sort of clandestine meeting with you. That's a rum go, to my mind. And there's more than that in it. He meets you last night and has a talk with you; but he doesn't suggest coming to see me. Or did he give you any message for me?”

“He didn't, as it happens. But you seem to think we were talking as if it was all a matter of business, Paul. It was a shock to me to have him back again. And I daresay I did most of the talking, and he hadn't time to give me any message for you. I was very shaken up by it all, and he was so kind to me.”

Her brother seemed to find little pleasure in the picture which she drew.

“Yes, I expect you did most of the talking, Jay. He wouldn't interrupt you much. But, aside from all that, it's getting near lunch-time now. He's had the whole morning to break into the family circle; and yet he hasn't come near. From what I remember of him, shyness wasn't one of his defects. Whatever you may think about it, that seems to me a bit fishy. Damned strange in fact. I'm not taking up any definite stand in the matter; but there are things that need a bit of explaining.”

Miss Fordingbridge seemed for a moment to be staggered by her brother's analysis; but she recovered herself almost at once and fastened upon his last point.

“Didn't I tell you that he was horribly disfigured? Even in the moonlight he was a dreadful sight. Do you expect him to come marching into this hotel in broad daylight this morning, so that everyone can stare at him? You really have very little common sense, Paul. I think it shows that he wants to spare us all the tittle-tattle he can. You know what hotels are, and how the people in them are simply on the look-out for something to chatter about. And when they got a chance like this—missing heir returns, and so forth—you can guess for yourself what it would be like. We'd have no life of it, with people staring at us and whispering behind our backs as we passed. And I think Derek has shown a great deal of tact and common sense in behaving as he has done. Naturally he asked to see me first. He knows how fond of him I was.”

Her brother seemed to consider this fresh view of the affair for a longer time than he had devoted to any of her other statements. At last he shook his head doubtfully.

“It might be as you say, of course,” he conceded grudgingly. “We must wait and see what turns up. But you can take it from me, Jay, that I shan't be satisfied unless I get something a good deal better in the way of evidence. It looks very like a parcel from a shop in Queer Street, so far as it's gone.”

Miss Fordingbridge seemed content to drop that side of the matter, at least for the time. But she had something further to say.

“Of course you'll drop this absurd idea of letting Foxhills now, Paul?”

Her brother seemed irritated by this fresh turn given to their conversation.

“Why should I? I've told you often enough that it's my business to do the best I can for Derek; and the rent of Foxhills would be worth having, even if Derek did come back. You're not suggesting that he should stay there, are you? It's far too big a place for a single man, even if he wanted to live down here at Lynden Sands.”

Miss Fordingbridge was plainly put out by this suggestion.

“Of course he would stay there. When he went away, didn't I keep his rooms in order, just as he left them? He could go back to-morrow and find his study exactly as it was when he left us. Everything's there just as it used to be: his books, his pipes, his old diary, his ash-trays—everything. When we shut up Foxhills, I wanted to have everything ready so that when he came back from the war he'd find everything in its usual place. He could walk straight in and feel that things were just the same and that we hadn't forgotten him. And now you want to let Foxhills just at the moment when he comes back again—rob the poor boy of the only place on this side of the world that he can call a home. I won't have it, Paul!”

“Whether you have it or haven't it, Jay, is a matter of total indifference. Until the power of attorney is revoked, I shall do exactly as seems best to me; and letting Foxhills is one of the things I shall certainly do.”

“But I know Derek doesn't want it,” cried Miss Fordingbridge. “Last night I told him all about how I'd kept his things for him so carefully; and if you'd seen how touched the poor boy was! He said it was the thing that had touched him most. And he was ever so grateful to me. And now you propose to spoil it all, after those years!”

She switched off on to another subject.

“And what do you propose to do about poor old Peter Hay? If you let Foxhills, it won't need a caretaker; and I suppose you'll turn poor Peter adrift? And, if you remember, Peter was one of the people that Derek liked best when he was here before. He was always going about with Peter, and he said he found him companionable. And he's learned a lot from Peter about beasts and so on—all new to him—since he came from Australia. But I suppose Peter's to go at a week's notice? That's a nice way to serve people.”

Her brother seemed to consider things before replying.

“I'll try to find something for Peter. You're quite right, Jay. I didn't mean to turn Peter adrift, though. If I have to sack him from the caretaker business, I'll pay him out of my own pocket till something else turns up. Peter's too decent a man to let down, especially after he's been at Foxhills all his life. If it had been that last valet we had—that fellow Aird—I'd never have thought twice about throwing him out at a day's notice. But you can trust me to look after Peter.”

Miss Fordingbridge seemed slightly mollified by this concession on her brother's part; but she stuck to her main point.

“Well, you can't let Foxhills in any case. I won't have it!”

But apparently her brother had wearied of argument, for he made no reply.

“I shall be going up to Foxhills some time to-day. I always go up to dust Derek's rooms, you know,” she continued.

“What on earth do you do that for?” her brother demanded in an exasperated tone. “Are you training for a housemaid's place? I hear there's a shortage in that line, but you hardly seem to be a useful kind of recruit, Jay.”

“I've always looked after Derek's rooms. When he was here at Foxhills in the old days, I never allowed anyone to lay a finger on his study. I knew just how he liked his things kept, and I wouldn't have maids fussing round, displacing everything.”

“Oh, of course you doted on the boy,” her brother retorted. “But it seems a bit unnecessary at this time of day.”

“Unnecessary? Just when Derek has come back?”

Paul Fordingbridge made no attempt to conceal his gesture of annoyance; but he refrained from reopening the sore subject.

“Well, if you come across Peter, you can send him down to me. I haven't seen him since we came here, and I may as well have a talk about things. Probably there are one or two repairs that need considering. Perhaps you could go round by his cottage and make sure of getting hold of him.”

Miss Fordingbridge nodded her assent.

“I'll be quite glad to have a talk with Peter. He'll be so delighted to know that Derek's back at last. It was only the other day that we were talking about Derek together. Peter thinks there's no one like him.”

“All the more reason for saying nothing, then. If it turns out that it isn't Derek, it would disappoint Peter badly if you'd raised his hopes.”

Then, seeing that his scepticism had again roused his sister's temper, he added hastily:

“By the way, how's Peter keeping? Has he had any more of these turns of his—apoplexy, wasn't it?”

“He seemed to be quite well when I saw him the other day. Of course, he's got to be careful and not excite himself; but he seemed to me as if he'd quite got over the slight attack he'd had in the spring.”

“Still got his old squirrel?”

“It's still there. And the rest of the menagerie too. He insisted on showing me them all, and of course I had to pretend to be frightfully interested. Poor old man, they're all he has now, since his wife died. It would be very lonely for him up there, with no one within a mile of him. His birds and things are great company for him, he says.”

Paul Fordingbridge seemed relieved that the conversation was edging away from the dangerous subject. He led it still further out of the zone.

“Have you see Cressida and Stanley this morning? They'd finished breakfast and gone out before I came on the scene.”

“I think they were going to play golf. They ought to be back presently.”

She went to the window and gazed out for a moment or two without speaking. Her brother took up The Times and resumed his study of the share market, with evident relief.

“This hotel spoils Lynden Sands,” Miss Fordingbridge broke out after a short silence. “It comes right into the view from the front of Foxhills—great staring building! And, wherever you go along the bay, you see this monstrosity glaring in the middle of the view. It'll ruin the place. And it'll give the villagers all sorts of notions, too. Visitors always spoil a small village.”

Her brother made no reply, and when she halted in her complaints he rustled his newspaper clumsily in an obvious effort to discourage further conversation. Just then a knock at the door was heard.

“Come in!” Miss Fordingbridge ordered.

A page-boy appeared.

“Message on the telephone for you, sir.”

Paul Fordingbridge rose reluctantly and left the room. He was absent for a very short time; and when he came back his sister could see that he was disturbed.

“That was a message from the doctor. It seems poor old Peter's gone.”

“Gone? Do you mean anything's happened to him?”

“He's had another attack—some time in the night or earlier. They didn't find out about it until the morning. The doctor's just been up at the cottage, so there's no doubt about it.”

“Poor Peter! He looked so well when I saw him the other day. One would have thought he'd live to see eighty. This will be a dreadful disappointment for Derek. He was so fond of the old man.”

She paused for a moment, as though she could hardly believe the news.

“Are you sure there's no mistake, Paul?”

“None whatever. It was the doctor himself who rang up. Peter had no relations, you know, so naturally we'll need to look after things. He served us well, Jay.”

“I remember when he came to Foxhills, and that's years and years ago. The place won't seem quite the same without him. Did the doctor tell you anything about it, Paul?”

“No details. He just rung up to let us know, he said, as we seemed to be the only people who had any real connection with the old boy. Now I come to think of it, that sawbones seemed a bit stuffy over something. A bit abrupt in his manner over the 'phone. He's a new man, apparently. I didn't know his name. Perhaps that was what put him out.”

Chapter II.
A Bus-Driver's Holiday

Sir Clinton Driffield, after a careful examination of the lie, deliberately put down a long putt on the last green of the Lynden Sands course. His opponent, Stanley Fleetwood, stooped and picked up his own ball.

“Your hole and match,” he said, handing his putter back to his caddie.

Sir Clinton nodded.

“Thanks for the game,” he said. “We seem to be fairly even. Much more fun when the thing's in doubt up to the last green. Yes, you might clean 'em,” he added in reply to his caddie's inquiry. “I shan't want them until to-morrow.”

A girl had been sitting on one of the seats overlooking the green; and, as the caddie replaced the pin in the hole, she rose to her feet and came down towards the players. Stanley Fleetwood waved to her, and then, in response to her mute question, he made a gesture of defeat.

“This is Sir Clinton Driffield, Cressida,” he explained, as they met.

Sir Clinton had trained himself to observe minutely without betraying that he was doing so; and he had a habit of mentally docketing the results of his scrutiny. Mannerisms were the points which he studied with most attention. As Cressida Fleetwood came slowly towards them, his apparently casual glance took in mechanically the picture of a dark-haired girl still in her twenties, slim and graceful; but his attention fastened mainly on a faint touch of shyness which added to her charm; and in the expression of her eyes he believed he read something more uncommon. It seemed as though a natural frankness had been overlaid by a tinge of mistrust in the world.

“I hope I didn't rob you of a game this morning by taking your husband away, Mrs. Fleetwood,” he said, as they turned up the path leading to the hotel.

Cressida reassured him at once.

“As it happened,” she explained, “I didn't feel inclined to play to-day, so he was left at a loose end; and when you took pity on him, I was very glad to have my conscience cleared.”

“Well, it was lucky for me,” Sir Clinton answered. “The friend who's staying with me just now wouldn't come out this morning. He strained his foot slightly yesterday. So I was left in the lurch, and I was very fortunate in finding Mr. Fleetwood free to take me on.”

They entered the grounds of the hotel, and, at a turn in the path, Cressida Fleetwood bowed to a girl who passed their group. The new-comer was handsome rather than pretty; and there was a hint of hardness in her face which detracted a little from her charm. She was dressed with a finish rather unusual at that time of day in a golfing hotel; and her walk lacked the free swing characteristic of the athletic English girl. Written fairly plainly on her were the signs of a woman who has had to look after her own interests and who has not always come out a winner in the game.

When she had passed out of earshot, Cressida turned to her husband.

“That's the French girl I told you about, Stanley—Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux. I found her in some difficulty or other at the hotel desk—her English isn't quite perfect—so I helped her out a little.”

Stanley Fleetwood nodded without comment; and Sir Clinton had little difficulty in seeing that he had no desire for his wife to extend her acquaintance with Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux. He could not help speculating as to the cause which had brought the Frenchwoman into this quiet backwater, where she had no amusements, apparently, and no acquaintances.

Before he had time to turn the matter over in his mind, however, his train of thought was interrupted by the appearance of a fresh figure.

“How's the strain, squire?” he greeted the newcomer; and, as Wendover came up to the group, he introduced him to his two companions.

“I hope you enjoyed your round,” said Wendover, turning to Stanley Fleetwood. “Did he manage to work off any of his special expertise on you this morning?”

“He beat me, if that's what you mean.”

“H'm! He beats me usually,” Wendover confessed. “I don't mind being beaten by play; but I hate to be beaten by the rules.”

“What do you mean, Mr. Wendover? You seem to have a grievance,” Cressida asked, seeing a twinkle in Wendover's eye.

“The fact is,” Wendover explained, “yesterday my ball rolled up against a large worm on the green and stopped there. I'm of a humane disposition, so I bent down to remove the worm, rather than putt across its helpless body. He objected, if you please, on the ground that one may not remove anything growing. I don't know whether it was growing or not—it looked to me remarkably well grown for a worm, and had probably passed the growing age. But, when I urged that, he simply floored me by quoting a recent decision of the Royal and Ancient on the point.”

“If you play a game, you must play that game and not one you invent on the spur of the moment, squire,” Sir Clinton warned him, with no sign of sympathy in his tone. “Ignorance of the law is no excuse.”

“Hark to the chief constable!” Wendover complained. “Of course, his mind dotes on the legal aspect of things, and he's used to keeping all sorts of rules and regulations in his head. His knowledge of the laws of golf is worth a couple of strokes on his handicap on any average round.”

Cressida glanced at Sir Clinton.

“Are you really a chief constable?” she asked. “Somehow you aren't like the idea I had of chief constables.”

“I'm on holiday at present,” Sir Clinton answered lightly; “perhaps that makes a difference. But I'm sorry to fall below your ideal—especially in my own district. If you could tell me what you miss, perhaps I could get it. What's wanted? Constabulary boots, or beetle-brows, or a note-book ready to hand, or a magnifying glass, or anything of that sort?”

“Not quite. But I thought you'd look more like an official somehow.”

“Well, in a way that's a compliment. I've spent a fair part of my existence trying hard not to look like an official. I wasn't born a chief constable, you know. I was once a mere detective sort of person at the other end of the world.”

“Were you really? But, then, you don't look like my idea of a detective, either!”

Sir Clinton laughed.

“I'm afraid you're hard to please, Mrs. Fleetwood. Mr. Wendover's just as bad. He's a faithful reader of the classics, and he simply can't imagine anyone going in for detective work without a steely eye and a magnifying glass. It jars on his finer feelings merely to think of a detective without either of them. The only thing that saves me is that I'm not a detective nowadays; and he salves his conscience by refusing to believe that I ever was one.”

Wendover took up the challenge.

“I've only seen you at work once in the detective line,” he confessed, “and I must admit I thought your methods were simply deplorable, Clinton.”

“Quite right,” Sir Clinton admitted: “I disappointed you badly in that Maze affair, I know. Even the success in the end hardly justified the means employed in reaching it. Let's draw a veil, eh?”

They had reached the door of the hotel, and, after a few words, Cressida and her husband went into the building.

“Nice pair they make,” Wendover remarked, glancing after them as they went. “I like to see youngsters of that type. They somehow make you feel that the younger generation isn't any worse than its parents; and that it has a good deal less fuss about it, too. Reinstates one's belief in humanity, and all that sort of thing.”

“Yes,” Sir Clinton concurred, with a faint twinkle in his eye. “Some people one takes to instinctively. It's the manner that does it. I remember a man I once ran across—splendid fellow, charm, magnetic personality, and so on.”

His voice died away, as though he had lost interest in the matter.

“Yes?” Wendover inquired, evidently feeling that the story had stopped too soon.

“He was the worst poker-sharp on the liner,” Sir Clinton added gently, “Charm of manner was one of his assets, you know.”

Wendover's annoyance was only half-feigned.

“You've a sordid mind, Clinton. I don't like to hear you throwing out hints about people in that way. Anyone can see that's a girl out of the common; and all you can think of in that connection is card-sharps.”

Sir Clinton seemed sobered by his friend's vexation.

“You're quite right, squire,” he agreed. “She's out of the common, as you say. I don't know anything about her history, but it doesn't take much to see that something's happened to her. She looks as if she'd taken the world at her own measure at first, trusted everybody. And then she got a devil of a shock one day. At least, if that isn't in her eyes, then I throw in my hand. I've seen the same expression once or twice before.”

They entered the hotel and sat down in the lounge. Wendover glanced from the window across the links.

“This place will be quite good when the new course has been played over for a year or two. I shouldn't wonder if Lynden Sands became fairly popular.”

Sir Clinton was about to reply when a page-boy entered the lounge and paraded slowly across it, chanting in a monotonous voice:

“Number eighty-nine! Number eighty-nine! Number eighty-nine!”

The chief constable sat up sharply and snapped his fingers to attract the page-boy's attention.

“That's the number of my room,” he said to Wendover, “but I can't think of anyone who might want me. Nobody knows me in this place.”

“You number eighty-nine, sir?” the page-boy demanded. “There's somebody asking for you. Inspector Armadale, he said his name was.”

“Armadale? What the devil can he be wanting?” Sir Clinton wondered aloud. “Show him in, please.”

In a minute or two the inspector appeared.

“I suppose it's something important, inspector,” Sir Clinton greeted him, “otherwise you wouldn't have come. But I can't imagine what brings you here.”

Inspector Armadale glanced at Wendover, and then, without speaking, he caught Sir Clinton's eye. The chief constable read the meaning in his glance.

“This is a friend of mine, inspector—Mr. Wendover. He's a J. P. and perfectly reliable. You can speak freely before him, if it's anything official.”

Armadale was obviously relieved.

“This is the business, Sir Clinton. This morning we had a 'phone message from the Lynden Sands doctor. It seems the caretaker at a big house hereabouts—Foxhills, they call it—was found dead, close to his cottage. Dr. Rafford went up to see the body; and at first he thought it was a case of apoplexy. Then he noticed some marks on the body that made him suspicious, and he says he won't give a death certificate. He put the matter into our hands at once. There's nobody except a constable hereabouts, so I've come over myself to look into things. Then it struck me you were staying at the hotel here, and I thought I'd drop in on my way up.”

Sir Clinton gazed at the inspector with a very faintly quizzical expression.

“A friendly call?” he said. “That's very nice. Care to stay to lunch?”

The inspector evidently had not expected to find the matter taken in this way.

“Well, sir,” he said tentatively, “I thought perhaps you might be interested.”

“Intensely, inspector, intensely. Come and tell me all about it when it's cleared up. I wouldn't miss it.”

Faint signs of exasperation betrayed themselves in the inspector's face.

“I thought, perhaps, sir, that you'd care to come over with me and look into the thing yourself. It seems a bit mysterious.”

Sir Clinton stared at him in well-assumed amazement.

“We seem to be rather at cross-purposes, inspector. Let's be clear. First of all, I'm on holiday just now, and criminal affairs have nothing to do with me. Second, even if I weren't on holiday, a chief constable isn't specially attached to the find-'em-and-grab-'em branch of the service. Third, it might cause professional jealousy, heart-burnings, and what not, if I butted into a detective's case. What do you think?”

“It's my case,” Armadale said, abandoning all further attempt at camouflage. “The plain truth is, from all I heard over the 'phone, that it seems a rum business; and I'd like to have your opinion on it, if you'd be so good as to give me it after you've examined things for yourself.”

Sir Clinton's face relaxed.

“Ah,” he confessed. “Now I seem to have some glimmerings of what you're after; and, since there's no question of my having interfered without being asked, I might look into the affair. But if I'm doing you a favour—as you seem to think—then I'm going to lay down one condition, sine qua non. Mr. Wendover's interested in detective work. He knows all the classics: Sherlock Holmes, Hanaud, Thorndyke, etc. So, if I come in, then he's to be allowed to join us. Agree to that, inspector?”

The inspector looked rather sourly at Wendover, as though trying to estimate how great a nuisance he was likely to prove; but, as Sir Clinton's assistance could evidently be secured only at a price, Armadale gave a rather ungracious consent to the proposed arrangement.

Sir Clinton seemed almost to regret his own decision.

“I'd hardly bargained for a bus-driver's holiday,” he said rather ruefully.

A glance at the inspector's face showed that the expression had missed its mark. Sir Clinton made his meaning clearer.

“In the old horse-bus days, inspector, it was rumoured that when a bus-driver got a holiday he spent it on somebody else's bus, picking up tips from the driver. It seems that you want me to spend my holiday watching you do police work and picking up tips from your methods.”

Inspector Armadale evidently suspected something behind the politeness with which Sir Clinton had turned his phrase. He looked rather glumly at his superior as he replied:

“I see I'm going to get the usual mixture, sir—help and sarcasm, half and half. Well, my hide's been tanned already; and your help's worth it.”

Sir Clinton corrected him with an air of exactitude.

“What I said was that I'd ‘look into the affair.’ It's your case, inspector. I'm not taking it off your shoulders, you understand. I don't mind prowling round with you; but the thing's in your hands officially, and I've nothing to do with it except as a spectator, remember.”

Armadale's air became even gloomier when he heard this point of view so explicitly laid down.

“You mean it's to be just the same as the Ravensthorpe affair, I suppose,” he suggested. “Each of us has all the facts we collect, but you don't tell me what you think of them as we get them. Is that it, sir?”

Sir Clinton nodded.

“That's it, inspector. Now, if you and Mr. Wendover will go round to the front of this place, I'll get my car out and pick you up in a minute or two.”

Chapter III.
The Police at the Caretaker's

Wendover, scanning his friend's face, could see that all the carelessness had vanished from its expression. With the prospect of definite work before him, Sir Clinton seemed to have dropped his holiday mood completely.

“I think the first port of call should be the doctor,” he suggested as he turned the car into the road leading to Lynden Sands village. “We'd better start at the beginning, inspector; and the doctor seems likely to have been the earliest expert on the spot.”

They found Dr. Rafford in his garden, tinkering at a spotless motor-cycle; and Wendover was somewhat impressed by the obvious alertness of the young medico. Armadale introduced his companions, and then went straight to the point.

“I've come over about that case, doctor—the caretaker at Foxhills. Can you give us something to go on before we start to look into it up there?”

Dr. Rafford's air of efficiency was not belied when he told his story.

“This morning, at about half-past eight, young Colby came hammering at my door in a great state. He does some of the milk delivery round about here; and Peter Hay's house is one at which he leaves milk. It seems he went up there as usual; but when he got to the gate of the cottage he saw old Hay's body lying on the path up to the door. I needn't describe how it was lying; you'll see for yourself. I didn't disturb it—didn't need to.”

Inspector Armadale's nod conveyed his satisfaction at this news. The doctor continued:

“Young Colby's only a child; so he got a bit of a fright. His head's screwed on all right, though; and he came straight off here to get hold of me. Luckily I hadn't gone out on my rounds as early as that, and he found me just finishing breakfast. I got my bike out and went up to Foxhills immediately.

“When I heard young Colby's tale, I naturally concluded that poor old Hay had had a stroke. I'd been doing my best to treat him for high blood-pressure, off and on; but I hadn't been able to do much for him; and once or twice he'd had slight attacks. He was bound to go, some time or other; and I concluded that he'd had a final attack through over-exertion or something of the sort.”

He paused in his narrative for a moment and glanced from face to face in the group.

“You'll see, from this, foul play was the last thing that entered my mind. I got up to his cottage and found him, just as young Colby had said, lying face down on the garden path. From the look of him he'd obviously died of congestion. It seemed all plain sailing. In fact, I was just going to leave him and hunt up some assistance when my eye caught something. His arms were stretched out at full length above his head, as if he'd gone down all of a piece, you know; and his right sleeve had got rucked up a little, so that it showed a bit of his arm. And my eye happened to catch a mark on the skin just above the wrist. It was pretty faint; but there had evidently been some compression there. It puzzled me—still puzzles me. However, that's your affair. It struck me that I might as well have a look at the other arm, so I pushed up the coat-sleeve a little—that's the only thing I did to alter things in any way around the body—and I found a second mark there, rather like the first one.”

He paused, as if to give the inspector the chance of putting a question; but, as none came, he went on with his story.

“The impression I got—of course, I may be wrong—was that marks of that sort might be important. Certainly, after seeing them, I didn't care to assert that poor old Hay's death was due entirely to natural causes. He'd died of congestion, all right. I'm dead sure that a P. M. will confirm that. But congestion doesn't make marks on a man's wrists. It seemed to me worth ringing you up. If it's a mare's nest, then it's a mare's nest, and I'll be sorry to have troubled you. But I believe in having things done ship-shape; and I'd rather trouble you than get into hot water myself, if there's anything fishy about the affair.”

Inspector Armadale seemed rather dubious about how he should take the matter. To Wendover it almost looked as though he was regretting the haste with which he had brought Sir Clinton into the business. If the whole thing turned out to be a mare's nest, quite evidently Armadale expected to feel the flick of his superior's sarcasm. And obviously a couple of marks on a dead man's wrists did not necessarily spell foul play, since the man had clearly died of cerebral congestion, according to the doctor's own account.

At last the Inspector decided to ask a question or two.

“You don't know of anyone with a grudge against Hay?”

Rafford made no attempt to restrain a smile.

“Hay?” he said. “No one could possibly have a grudge against Peter. He was one of the decentest old chaps you could find anywhere—always ready to do a good turn to anyone.”

“And yet you assert that he was murdered?” demanded the inspector.

“No, I don't,” the doctor retorted sharply. “All I say is that I don't feel justified in signing a death certificate. That ends my part. After that, it's your move.”

Armadale apparently realised that Rafford was not the sort of person who could be bluffed easily. He tried a fresh line.

“When do you think the death took place?”

The doctor considered for a moment.

“It's no good giving you a definite hour,” he said. “You know as well as I do how much the symptoms vary from case to case. I think it's quite on the cards that he died some time about the middle of the night or a little earlier. But you couldn't get me to swear to that in the box, I warn you.”

“I've often heard it said,” the inspector commented in a disconsolate tone, “that you scientific people make the worst witnesses. You never will say ‘yes’ or ‘no’ plainly like ordinary people. You're always hedging and qualifying.”

“Had a training in accuracy, I expect,” Rafford replied. “We don't feel inclined to swear to things until we're convinced about them ourselves.”

Armadale evidently decided not to pursue the subject further.

“What about the body?” he asked.

“I sent Sapcote up to look after it—the village constable. He's up at Foxhills now. If it was to be left for your examination somebody had to be there to see it wasn't disturbed.”

The inspector nodded approvingly.

“Quite right. And I suppose I can get hold of this youngster—Colby's his name, isn't it?—any time I need him?”

Rafford gave him the boy's address, which he took down in his note-book.

“Anything else you can think of that might be useful?” he inquired, putting the book back into his pocket.

The doctor shook his head.

“Nix. I suppose the coroner will want a look in?”

“I expect so,” Armadale replied.

He glanced at Wendover and Sir Clinton to indicate that he now left the field to them. Wendover took advantage of the tacit permission.

“You didn't see anything that suggested poison, did you?” he asked the doctor.

Rafford's faint smile put an edge on his reply:

“I believe I said that if it hadn't been for the marks on the wrists, I'd have certified congestion of the brain. I don't think poison marks the wrists.”

Wendover, feeling that he had hardly shone by his interposition, refrained from further questions and glanced at Sir Clinton. The chief constable appeared to think that further inquiries could be allowed to stand over for a time.

“I think we'd better be moving on,” he suggested. “Thanks for your help, Dr. Rafford. Once we've seen the body, perhaps something fresh may turn up, and we may have to trouble you again. By the way,” he added, “did you notice if there was a heavy dew last night? I was playing bridge at the hotel and didn't go out after dinner; but perhaps you were out and can tell me.”

“The dew did come down fairly heavy,” Rafford said, after a pause for recollection. “I happened to be out at a case, and I noticed it. Are you thinking about the possibility of Hay's death being due to exposure?”

“Not exactly,” Sir Clinton answered, with a faintly ironical smile. “As you would say, doctor, exposure doesn't mark a man's wrist—at least not so quick as all that.”

Rafford acknowledged the dig good-humouredly and accompanied them to the garden gate as they went out.

“I hope I haven't started you on a wild-goose chase, inspector,” he said on parting. “But I suppose that sort of thing's all in your day's work, anyhow.”

Armadale digested this in silence as the car spun along towards Foxhills; then at last he uttered his views in a single sentence:

“That young fellow strikes me as uncommonly jaunty.”

And having liberated his soul, he kept obstinately silent until they had reached their destination.

“This is the place, I think,” Sir Clinton said a few minutes later, pulling his car up on the Foxhills avenue at a point where a side-road led off towards a little cottage among some trees. “I can see the constable in the garden.”

Getting out of the car, they made their way along the by-lane for a short distance, and, as they came to the garden gate, Armadale hailed the constable. Sapcote had been sitting on a wooden chair beside the body, reading a newspaper to while away the time; but at the sound of the inspector's voice he rose and came forward along the flagged path.

“Things have been left just as they were, I suppose?” Armadale demanded.

Sapcote confirmed this and at once fell into the background, evidently realising that he had nothing to report which would interest the inspector. He contented himself with following the proceedings of his superior with the closest interest, possibly with a view to retailing them later to his friends in the village.

Armadale stepped up the paved path and knelt down beside the body, which was lying—as the doctor had described it—face downwards with the arms extended above the head.

“H'm! Looks as if he'd just stumbled and come down on his face,” the inspector commented. “No signs of any struggle, anyhow.”

He cast a glance at the paved path.

“There's not much chance of picking up tracks on that,” he said disparagingly.

Wendover and Sir Clinton had come round to the head of the body and the chief constable bent down to examine the wrists. Armadale also leaned over; and Wendover had some difficulty in getting a glimpse over their shoulders. Constable Sapcote hovered uncertainly in the rear, evidently anxious to see all he could, but afraid to attract the inspector's attention by pushing forward. Wendover inferred that Armadale must have a reputation as a disciplinarian.

“There seem to be marks of a sort,” the inspector admitted grudgingly, after a brief study of the skin. “Whether they mean anything in particular's another matter. He might have had a fall at the gate and banged his wrists against a bar; and then he might have got up and staggered on until he fell here and died.”

Sir Clinton had been studying the marks with more deliberation. He shook his head at the inspector's suggestion.