This etext was transcribed by Les Bowler.

THE
CLEVEDON
: : CASE : :

BY
NANCY & JOHN
OAKLEY

PHILADELPHIA
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY

Printed in Great Britain by Wyman & Sons Ltd., London, Reading and Fakenham.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I
A MIDNIGHT VISITOR

I became mixed up with the Clevedon case—the Cartordale Mystery, as it has been called—in curious fashion. True, it was to some extent in my line of business, though I do not actually earn my living by straightening out tangles. With me it is all a matter of “copy.”

You may or may not have read my various books—there are eight of them now—on criminology. Their preparation has led me into all sorts of queer by-ways and has given me a curiously clear and analytical insight into the mind of the criminal. I have solved many mysteries—you will forgive the apparent boastfulness, but I have no useful Watson to detail my exploits—but I stop there, with solving them, I mean. When I know the answer, I hand the whole matter over to the police. “There is your man (or woman)—take him,” I say. And sometimes they do take him—and hang him. But occasionally they reply, “But we can’t take him—we couldn’t prove it against him.” That, however, is no business of mine. I am a scientist, not a police official, and have nothing to do with the foolery of their law courts or the flummery of what they call their rules of evidence.

I have supplied the answer to the conundrum and that suffices me. The mystery and its solution go into my notebooks, to be used eventually for my own purpose, it may be to illustrate a theory, or perhaps to demonstrate a scientific fact. I have no desire to pose and no intention of posing as a worker of miracles.

There is nothing marvellous about my methods nor wonderful in the results. I do but proceed from fact to fact, as you will see in this narrative, wherein I have set forth exactly what happened, however foolish it may make me look. The reader will accompany me step by step in my investigation of the Clevedon mystery and will learn precisely how the solution, which so bewildered and astonished the little group in Cartordale, came to me. You will see me groping in the dark, then you will discover, as I did, a pin-point of light which grows wider and wider until the whole story stands revealed. And if you guess the solution before I did, that will show that you are a cleverer detective than I am, which may very easily be.

I did not, by the way, go to Cartordale for the purpose of investigating this particular mystery. I became involved in it almost involuntarily. It was a queerly tangled skein enough, and that of itself would have been sufficient fascination to drag me into it, though I was deep in it long before any intention or even desire to solve the puzzle manifested itself. As a rule I carefully select my cases. Some appeal to me, others do not. But in this instance I was not entirely a free agent. I was in it before I quite knew where I was going. That being so, it may be interesting to explain how I came to be at Cartordale at all.

My Aunt Emily, to put it briefly, left me the house and the money that took me into the wilds of Peakshire. I had never met her in the flesh, and she, as far as I know, had never set eyes on me. In point of fact, she never forgave my father for taking to himself a second wife after my mother died. But that is family history and dry stuff. Aunt Emily made amends for past neglect by her will. She left me about eight hundred a year from investments, and the house at Cartordale, both very useful, though I was not exactly a poor man. My books have provided me with a fairly steady income for some years.

Stone Hollow, the house I had inherited, was a square, rather gloomy-looking building—outwardly sombre, at all events—situated at the head of Cartordale, a wild and romantic valley in the heart of Peakshire, some sixteen miles from the large industrial city of Midlington. The name, Stone Hollow, had a comparatively recent derivation, arising from the fact that the house was built on the site of, and largely on the profits from, a now disused stone quarry.

The house itself stood on a sort of broad shelf, and behind it a tall hill sprang almost perpendicularly upwards, still showing on its face the marks and scars of former quarrying operations, though Nature was already busy trying to hide the evidences of man’s vandalism behind a cover of green and brown. Before the house, the ground sloped gently downwards towards the Dale, while to the left was a stretch of heather clad moorland lying between Stone Hollow and White Towers, the residence of Sir Philip Clevedon.

It sounds rather well in description, but I will frankly confess that after a very few days at Cartordale I was bored. Though I had travelled widely, I had never actually lived out of London and was always very quickly eager to be back there. At first, I had done my best to persuade myself that a country life was really the ideal and that it would provide me with quiet and isolation that would be useful for literary work. But I soon arrived at the limit of my resources in self-deception. Which brings me to the night of February 23rd.

I was lolling on the couch in the room I had made my study, pretending to work and succeeding very badly.

“Nothing ever happens in a place like this,” I said aloud, with a yawn. “I should become a hopeless vegetable if I lived here. I couldn’t even write another book. There isn’t a chapter in the whole blessed place. Neither robbery nor murder ever happens. The folk wouldn’t know the meaning of the words without looking them up in a dictionary. Honesty is the badge of all their tribe, and honesty, if commendable, is dull.”

I took up a batch of manuscript from the desk at my elbow and began to read in rather desultory fashion, making a correction here and there with a pencil.

“Another delusion shattered,” I murmured. “They say one can write so much better in the quiet of the country than amid the bustle and distractions of town. That is bunkum. This one can’t, anyway. I thought I would have made a good start with this book, but I have done next to nothing, and what there is of it is rotten. I could do more work in a week in London than I shall do in three months of this. I think I’ll be getting back next week.”

But I was wrong in saying that nothing ever happened in Cartordale. Adventure was even at that moment coming towards me with very hurried footsteps.

The time—it is essential always to be precise in details—was fifty-three minutes past eleven, and the date February 23rd.

It came, the beginning of the story, with a quick, almost peremptory tapping on the window-pane and then the bottom sash was slowly pushed up. I turned to the desk and took a revolver from one of the small drawers, then strode across the room and raised the blind with a quick rattle, half expecting that my visitor would reveal himself in the shape of a burglar. What I saw brought even me to a standstill, little susceptible as I am to surprises of any sort.

My visitor was not a burglar—at least, not a male of that species—but a girl, who looked young enough to be in her teens, though she may have been a year or two outside them, and a great deal too pretty to be wandering about alone at that time of night. She was wearing a long, sleeveless cloak and a grey, woollen cap, from beneath which part of her hair had escaped and was blowing about her face in little wisps of bronze-gold cloud.

“Let me in,” she whispered. “Please—I have hurt myself and I am afraid to go on.”

I stretched out my hands and, placing them beneath her arms, lifted her over the low window-sill and into the room.

“How strong you are,” she murmured.

But even as she said that, the something that had kept her up gave way and she lay a limp, dead weight in my clasp. I carried her to the couch, but as I placed her down and began to unfasten the long, grey cloak, I noticed that the sleeve of her white blouse was stained with blood. That was evidently the hurt to which she had referred; and I began to wonder whether I had not better summon my housekeeper. It looked essentially a case for feminine aid. The girl, however, was already recovering.

“No, come here,” she said, as I began to move towards the door.

I returned to her side and gently lifted her arm.

“Yes, you have hurt yourself,” I remarked. “See—your arm, isn’t it?—there is blood—”

“Yes, it’s my arm,” she replied, lifting her cloak and showing a ragged tear in the blouse on the under-side of the sleeve. “It’s not very bad—I think—but it seems to be bleeding a good deal, and I—I am afraid of blood.”

“May I look at it?” I asked. “I could perhaps bandage it, and—”

“Are you a doctor—how nice!” she cried.

“No,” I replied with a smile, “I am not a doctor. But I am a first-aid expert, enough of one, anyway, to say whether or not a doctor is necessary. Yes, I have treated much bigger injuries than this. It is only a scratch, I fancy, and the blood looks more than it really is. A very little blood makes a mess of things. Lie still a minute. I have everything here within reach and we’ll soon put you right.”

I brought a pair of scissors and cut away the sleeve, finding the arm beneath it—the left arm, by the way—rather badly gashed.

“To-morrow you must show that to a doctor,” I said when I had washed and bandaged it. “Now I will give you a glass of wine and—”

“Is there anyone but you in the house?” the girl asked abruptly, as if some thought had suddenly occurred to her.

“There is my housekeeper,” I said, “and a maid. Shall I rouse them and—?”

“Mercy, no!” she exclaimed. “Whatever would they say if they found me here—at this time of night—?”

I nodded, quite comprehending the hint so conveyed.

“I have been visiting a friend,” she went on, observing me keenly through her drooping eyelashes, perhaps to see how I took the story, “and I—I lost my way.”

“Your friends should not have allowed you to attempt to find it by yourself,” I returned.

“My friends are not plural,” she retorted with a little trill of laughter. “They—or rather she—she is a maiden lady—and I am not in the least bit nervous. I am a country girl by birth and upbringing, and the darkness means nothing to me. It is the fog that worries me. I stayed later than I should have done, and in my hurry to get back I lost my way. Then I saw the light in your window and I came, meaning to ask where I was. I had to climb over a wall, and in doing that I cut my arm on some glass. I think it is very stupid to put glass on walls—”

“It shall be knocked off to-morrow,” I interrupted.

“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” the girl said demurely. “I am not likely to come this way again. But do you know Cartordale?”

“Well, know is hardly the word. I am afraid I don’t very well. I have only been here a short time,” I answered. “I know very few people. I have never seen you before, for example.”

That was a leading question very thinly disguised, but she did not rise to it.

“I am afraid,” I went on, “it would be but another instance of the blind leading the blind if I attempted to guide you about the Dale. I will do my best if you will tell me where you live, unless, indeed, you would prefer to stay here until morning. The place is at your service and I could very easily waken the—”

But my visitor’s negative gesture was very decided.

“What house is this?” she demanded.

“It is called Stone Hollow,” I told her.

“Oh, I know Stone Hollow,” she cried. “It was Mrs.—Mrs.—a lady with a curious name, but I have forgotten it.”

“Mrs. Mackaluce,” I volunteered. “She was my aunt.”

“Yes, that was the name, I remember now. I have been here before, but never by the—the back window. If you can put me on the roadway outside Stone Hollow I shall know where I am.”

“I can take you home, at all events, if you can show me the way,” I said.

The girl looked at me for a moment or two doubtfully as if that were not quite what she had intended.

“It is not right that you should be out alone at this time of the night,” I added.

“Oh, right and wrong are merely terms,” she replied, rising to her feet. “There is no law against being out at night. It isn’t forbidden in the Defence of the Realm Act, is it? If I like to be out at night it is right I should be.”

“I was thinking of the danger, not of the law,” I responded dryly.

“Why, whatever danger can there be?” the girl cried, opening wide her pretty eyes. “There are no highway robbers in Cartordale, nor any Germans.”

But I did not argue with her. I simply handed her the woollen cap which had fallen off when she fainted, then helped her to fasten the cloak around her, and finally led her into the hall, picking up my own hat and coat as I went. I was fully determined on seeing her to her own home, wherever that might be and whatever her objections. I opened the door noiselessly and closed it again with the merest click of the lock.

“It is very dark,” I muttered, being a man of the town and used to gas-lamps.

“Yes, it often is at midnight,” the girl replied demurely, but with a little catch in her voice as if she were choking back a laugh. “But I can see very well. Those who are country-born have eyes in their feet, you know, and never miss the path. Why, there are men of the Dale, and women too, for that matter, who will walk across the moors at dark and never miss the path for all it is no more than three feet wide.”

“But you have lost your way once already to-night,” I murmured.

“That doesn’t affect the question,” she retorted scornfully. “It was only because I was trying a short cut. I left the path of my own accord. If I had kept to the road I should have been home by now. The longest way round is the quickest way home. Is that a proverb? It sounds like one. If it isn’t it should be. It is true, anyway. Besides, it is foggy. That makes a difference. Give me your hand.”

Apparently she did see better than I, for the next minute I felt the grip of her slender fingers as she seized mine and began to pull me forward. We went swiftly and in silence, still hand in hand, for some minutes, then her clasp loosened.

For a moment or two the shadow of her lingered beside me, then suddenly disappeared into the fog. We had reached a part of the Dale that was flanked on one side by a wall of rock which deepened even the blackness of the night and made the darkness, to me, at all events, absolutely impenetrable. There was no sign of light or house, nor indeed of any building, and when I groped my way to the side of the road, I stumbled, first into a ditch and then against a low rubble wall, beyond which was only fog much thicker now than it had been earlier in the evening.

And it was there I lost her. How she went, or in which direction, I had no idea. But I had no doubt that she had evaded me of design—and that her home was nowhere thereabout. That she knew the Dale intimately was evident. She had deliberately led me to its darkest spot simply that she might there lose me. I smiled grimly as I realised that. She had fooled me with incomparable skill and wit. I paid a frank mental tribute to her cleverness. A young lady of brains, this, and one whose acquaintance was well worth cultivating.

I stood waiting for some little time—possibly ten minutes or a quarter of an hour—then lit a cigarette and walked slowly back to Stone Hollow, pondering over the queer little adventure, wondering who the girl was and whether—or rather when—I should see her again. She was evidently an inhabitant of the Dale—her familiarity with it at all events suggested that—in which case she could hardly expect to evade me permanently. I must sooner or later meet and recognise her. At any rate it was a piquant little mystery, and I must confess that somehow Cartordale no longer seemed quite so dull as it had been.

I had little idea then as to what the mystery, in which I had thus become involved, really was or how quickly it would develop on tragic and very unexpected lines.

I reached Stone Hollow again at 2.7 a.m. The whole episode, from the knock on the window to my return home had occupied two hours fourteen minutes.

CHAPTER II
THE TRAGEDY AT WHITE TOWERS

When I came down to Stone Hollow to take over my new inheritance, I found the house completely furnished on extremely comfortable if rather old-fashioned lines; and Martha Helter in possession. She had been my aunt’s housekeeper for over twenty years and had evidently every intention of being mine also. I was quite agreeable, since it saved me a lot of trouble, nor have I so far seen any reason to regret that decision.

Mrs. Helter—the title had apparently been accorded her by courtesy, since she was still a spinster and everybody but myself used it; but I began with Martha, her Christian name, and Martha it is to this day—is a most capable manager and runs my household with a precision that reminds one of well-oiled wheels, and a careful economy that has its recommendation in these days of ridiculous prices. She seemed to know and to be known by almost everybody in the Dale, and was an all but exhaustless fountain of anecdote and news.

I say “all but” because she could not give me immediately the information I sought regarding my pretty midnight visitor. Not that I attached very much actual importance to that queer incident. It had amused me, and perhaps, though I would not confess it even to myself, I was just a little piqued at being so cleverly outwitted by a mere girl. I had cause during the day to revise my estimate of the interest I was to take in my uninvited guest. But my first thought was to identify her.

“Martha,” I said to my housekeeper, “did you ever meet hereabouts a young lady wearing a grey woollen cap and a long cloak without sleeves, a sort of cape reaching to her boots?”

Martha Helter pondered the question for a minute or two, but shook her head.

“I don’t think I have ever seen a cloak like that in Cartordale,” she replied.

“I saw one yesterday,” I said, “and I wondered who the wearer was. Never mind, perhaps I shall see her—I mean it—again. It was the pattern of the cloak that took my fancy.”

I am not quite sure why I added that last phrase, though if Martha noticed anything she kept a perfectly straight face.

“A grey woollen cap and a long cloak without sleeves?” said the little maid who entered the room at that moment and to whom the housekeeper propounded the question. “Why, yes’m, that’s Miss Kitty Clevedon—lives with her ladyship, you know. There are two gentlemen to see the master,” she added.

“Bring them in,” I said. “Who are they? Do you know them?”

“One of them is Sergeant Gamley, of the County Police,” Susan replied, “but the other is a stranger and did not give his name.”

“Bring them in,” I repeated.

Sergeant Gamley was in uniform, a tall, thin man with a long hatchet face and an air of important solemnity which he never shed. His companion was rather more rotund in build, with puffy red cheeks above which peered small, keen eyes that did not seem to linger long on anything, but which for all that missed nothing. Abraham Pepster was chief of the detective force at Peakborough, the county town, and one may judge to some extent his prevailing characteristic by the fact that his nickname among disrespectful subordinates was “Gimlet-eyes.” It was, however, Sergeant Gamley who opened the conversation on this particular occasion.

“We have called, Mr. Holt,” he said, “with regard to the tragedy at White Towers. Sir Philip Clevedon—”

“A tragedy—of what nature?” I interrupted. “I have heard nothing of it. There is nothing in the papers about it, is there? Or have I missed it?”

I interposed just then because I wanted to slow down the story a little. The girl who had visited me last night was named Clevedon—Susan had just told me so—and now there was a Sir Philip Clevedon and a tragedy. I could not help wondering, of course, what connection there could be between the two, but I was determined to feel my way cautiously, resolved not to be hustled or bounced into saying more than I wanted to say. The story, whatever it was, should come from them without any help from me.

“No, Mr. Holt, I dare say you haven’t heard anything yet—not many have,” Sergeant Gamley went on. “As you say, it isn’t in the papers. You are a stranger among us—yes, yes. For the moment I had forgotten that. I knew your late respected aunt very well indeed, Mr. Holt. There was a little matter of a burglary in this very house some four years ago. Mr. Holt”—he turned to his companion—“has been living here only a very short time. He succeeded the late Mrs. Mackaluce, whose nephew he was.”

“Hadn’t you better tell Mr. Holt what has happened at White Towers?” the other man suddenly interrupted, speaking in a small, soft voice that was rather curiously in contrast with his bulk, and without any trace of impatience. He had perhaps been as willing as myself that the conversation should not be hurried.

“You can see White Towers from the upper windows of your own house, Mr. Holt,” Sergeant Gamley continued. “It lies between you and the village, a large house with an outstanding turret and two smaller towers.”

“I have seen it,” I said, “but my housekeeper said it was White Abbey, if that is the place you mean.”

“The good lady is a little mixed,” was Gamley’s reply.

He was proud of his local antiquarian knowledge and delighted to parade it, being, indeed, a frequent contributor to the local papers and regarded as an authority on county history in general and Cartordale in particular.

“White Towers,” he went on, “stands on the site of the old White Abbey. The older name survives, but the present house, of which Sir Philip Clevedon is the owner—was the owner—”

If there is such a thing as an inward smile I indulged in one then. The method was so obvious and I had so often used it myself. Pepster was allowing the other man to go maundering on while he himself kept me under careful observation. I do not, however, allow my thoughts to be written on my face, and I merely listened impassively. Pepster seemed at last to recognise that he was not likely to get much help as things were going, for he brushed Gamley aside and took up the story himself.

“The fact is, Mr. Holt,” he said bluntly, “Sir Philip Clevedon was found dead this morning—stabbed—”

He paused there and I waited, making no sign.

“With a lady’s hatpin,” he added, “a big, three-cornered affair with a silver knob.”

I had a swift vision of a white, frightened face beneath a woollen cap, but I could not quite connect the girl of the previous night’s visit with any thought of crime. She did not fit into a picture of that sort. Yet I knew as certainly as if she had told me that she was in some way mixed up with it all. And why had they come to me? Did they know of that midnight visit? I was determined that they should tell me. I would give them no lead. They must do all the talking. Pepster, after a rather lengthy pause, seemed to realise the position.

“Perhaps you wonder why we come to you,” he said in his small, soft voice. “It was merely on the chance that in your late stroll last night—”

So they did know I had been out. Had they also seen my companion?

“—Sergeant Gamley—you stood to light a cigarette and the match lit up your face.”

Pepster paused there again with an obvious appearance of waiting. Following the normal course, the person addressed should now break into more or less voluble explanations of the why and wherefore of this midnight stroll, explanations which the detective could weigh as they came forth and so form some estimate of their value or otherwise to the quest on which he was engaged. There might be nothing in it. Pepster knew full well that he would interview and interrogate scores of persons during the next few days and would have to sift a prodigious amount of chaff on the off chance of an occasional grain of wheat. In any case he had to go on sifting. That was his job.

“Seeing your name was mentioned in the way it was,” Pepster went on, “I thought you might like to explain—”

“Yes?” I said inquiringly, “explain?”

“Your name was mentioned, you know,” Pepster murmured.

“So you have told me. But what is it you wish me to explain?”

“You were out very late last night,” Pepster remarked.

“Let us be a trifle more explicit,” I said. “It comes to this—if you suspect me of having any hand in killing Sir Philip Clevedon with a three-cornered hatpin, you have no right to question me. It is against your rules, isn’t it, for you to trip me up and entrap me? If I am not under suspicion I do not quite see whither your questions lead. You may produce the handcuffs or take me into your confidence. But in any case,” I added with a quick smile, “I reserve my defence.”

“You are a bit off the rails, Mr. Holt,” Pepster returned with unabated calm. “I know of nothing which should connect you with the murder, nothing at all. But your name was mentioned, and it is my duty to question everybody who may be in the remotest degree linked up with the affair in case by any chance they may afford me information. Do you mind telling me why you were out so late last night?”

“I was taking a stroll.”

“It was a very foggy, unpleasant night.”

“It was extremely so.”

“And consequently very dark.”

“That coincides with my own recollection.”

“A stroll in a thick fog!”

“My dear sir, you ask me a question. I answer it in good faith, and you disbelieve me.”

“No, no, not at all,” Pepster said blandly. “I accept your word implicitly. It was not the object and inspiration of the—er—the stroll that interested me.”

“No? You were not wondering whether I was coming from or going to White Towers? I am glad of that,” I returned with apparently great satisfaction. “In point of fact the stroll was a mere whim on my part, induced mainly, I may say, by the hope that it would assist me to a night’s sound sleep. I had been writing. One reason why I maintain my cabbage-like existence in a God-forgotten corner of the country like this is that I may write a book. But writing renders the brain a little over-active and—”

I broke off there and waited for the other to continue.

“What I really wanted to know,” Pepster went on, “was whether you saw or met anybody during your stroll.”

“I saw nobody and met nobody,” I responded equably.

“Somebody passed a few minutes previously,” Pepster continued. “Gamley here heard them talking, a man and a woman. But he could not distinguish them. He thought no more of it at the time, of course. Nothing was known of the murder then. He recognised you only because you struck a match to light your cigarette. But you were alone.”

He nodded to Sergeant Gamley and picked up his hat.

“Would it be impertinent,” I asked, “to inquire whether you have any clue, any idea, any theory—”

“Oh, I never theorise,” Pepster replied with bland serenity. “It is only story-book detectives who theorise. Theories are too much of a luxury for professionals. Facts are my stock-in-trade. I do not travel outside those.”

“You have the hatpin,” I suggested.

“Yes,” he replied vaguely, “we have the hatpin.”

But he had evidently no intention of talking about that.

When they had gone I set myself down to concentrate my thoughts—on the girl’s woollen cap. I have so trained my faculty of observation—just as a conjurer trains his fingers or a dancer her feet—that I see everything even to the smallest detail, though often without making any conscious record of it at the time. When the girl fainted in my arms her woollen cap had fallen off. Consequently there had been no hatpin, though, as I visualised it, I remembered that on the rim of grey cloth which bound the knitted shape, there were marks showing that a hatpin had been in use. Was it with her hatpin that Sir Philip Clevedon had been done to death?

There you—this to the reader—have the case set forth, and you are in exactly the same position that I was myself—a stranger to the place and the people, knowing practically nobody and with every item of information yet to seek. But we both of us have one small advantage over the police. The latter, as far as I could make out, knew nothing of Miss Kitty Clevedon’s midnight adventure.

CHAPTER III
A MEETING IN THE DARK

I had not long to wait before making further acquaintance with my pretty midnight visitor. Our second meeting took place within a few hours of the police call and on the same day. I had been out for a long walk across the hills and was tramping steadily along the high road towards Stone Hollow, when I saw, gleaming through the darkness—it was already dark though only late afternoon—at probably the loneliest and most desolate spot in the Dale, the headlights of a motor-car evidently at a standstill.

“It’s a weird place for a halt and worse if it’s a breakdown,” I murmured, and involuntarily quickened my steps.

But as I approached the car I saw a moving light and then the shadow of a woman walking towards me, carrying, apparently, a small electric torch. Evidently she had heard my approach and had set out to meet me. As she stepped momentarily into the light of the car I recognised her. It was the girl of the midnight visit.

“Who is it, Kitty?” demanded a quick, imperious voice somewhere in the darkness. “Tell him to come here. Do you know him?”

“Lady Clevedon is in the car,” the girl said a little hurriedly. “Will you come and speak to her?”

“Is it a breakdown?” I queried.

“No,” the girl responded, “it is Hartrey. We have lost him.”

But I had no immediate opportunity of questioning her as to the missing Hartrey, or the manner of his going, for “Kitty,” as the old lady had addressed her, had run to the door of the car and pulled it open, to reveal old Lady Clevedon, white of hair, very erect of figure, rather stern of face and with keen, searching eyes that just now were full of wrath.

“Is there anything I can do?” I began.

“You can find Hartrey,” her ladyship responded, not exactly snappily, but quite ungently; she was evidently used to giving orders, and it never occurred to her, apparently, that I would do any other than obey.

“Who is Hartrey?” I demanded.

“He is the chauffeur,” the girl explained. “We sent him with a message to Lepley’s farm—it is over there.”

She pointed vaguely into the darkness, and I followed her gesture with my eyes. But I could see no sign of house or light or living creature—only the darkness and, in the fore-ground, the blurred outlines of masses of rock.

“It should not have taken him ten minutes,” the girl went on, “but he has been gone for more than half an hour.”

“How far is the farm-house?” I asked. “It is rather queer we cannot see any lights.”

“Oh, I think there are some barns or something of the sort between the road and the house,” Miss Kitty Clevedon told me. “And, besides, it lies in a hollow and the rocks may hide it. I have seen the place before, but only in daylight, and I forget just how it stands.”

“If you will allow me I will go as far as the house and inquire,” I said, producing my own electric lamp. “Possibly your man has tripped over a stone—”

“Tripped over a stone!” her ladyship cried scornfully. “He’s more likely philandering with the Lepley girl. Do you know her?”

I replied in the negative, adding that, indeed I had never heard of her.

“Well, you’re the only man in the Dale that doesn’t know her,” the old lady retorted. “Oh, no, there’s nothing wrong with the girl, but the men are crazy over her, and Hartrey with the rest, I suppose.”

I could not help being a little entertained by the idea that I might be a competitor with the chauffeur for the favours of the fair Lepley. But I did not put the thought into words. I hadn’t an opportunity, indeed, for the old lady threw off her rugs and made evident preparations to alight.

“If you would wait here, I could go alone,” I ventured, thinking the search would be hampered rather than helped by the old lady’s presence. But she did not even answer me. She stepped from the car with an agility which showed that her body was still younger than her years, and herself led the way towards a gap in the tumble-down, rubble wall where once apparently had been a gate. The car, I noticed, was standing well aside on the rough turf that flanked the roadway, and, in any case, there was little enough traffic in those parts at that time of the year. We might leave it there in safety. And accordingly the three of us made our way along the very rough and uneven road that led to Lepley’s farm.

“No,” said the farmer’s wife, who answered my rap at the door, “Mr. Hartrey has not been here to-night.”

She called to somebody who was evidently in a kitchen at the rear of the house.

“Perhaps he tripped ovver a stoan and hurt hisself,” the farmer’s wife went on, “though if it’s that it seems queer you saw nowt of him as you came along. Besides, I don’t know what he would be doing tripping ovver a boulder, anyway. I reckon he knows the road blindfolded, and there are no boulders to hurt if you keep to the path.”

I could have argued that point with her, for I had nearly twisted my ankle on one group of boulders and had badly barked my shins on another. But it was hardly worth while debating it, since apparently Hartrey had not tripped over a boulder or we should have tripped over him. At this moment, too, a girl emerged from the kitchen, carrying a lamp held high so that she might see who the visitors were. Her sharper eyes discovered the two ladies, and she made a step towards them.

“Her ladyship!” she cried, “and Miss Kitty! Come right in. What is the trouble?”

That was my first introduction to Nora Lepley, a young woman of whom I was to know a good deal more before I finished with her. She was tall and finely built, with plentiful hair so dark as to be almost black, and eyes that in some lights seemed to be of a rich purple and in others of a sombre, rather heavy blue. They were wonderful eyes and one had no need to wonder that the men of the Dale should be, to use Lady Clevedon’s words, “crazy over her.” She had then more admirers than she could count on the fingers of both her slim, capable hands, and is still unmarried. I think I know why, though I have hardly any right to say so.

She spoke with an educated intonation, in curious contrast with her mother, who used the ordinary dialect of the Dale. Beautiful, clever, educated, entirely self-possessed, she was certainly something of a novelty to discover in a Cartordale farm-house.

“I thought you were at White Towers with your aunt,” Lady Clevedon said.

“I have just run home to get some clothes,” the girl replied. “I am going back to-night to stay with Aunty. She is terribly upset. But what is the trouble here?”

“The trouble is,” Lady Clevedon retorted grimly, “that I have a fool for a chauffeur. I sent him here with a message, but he hasn’t been nor did he come back to us. He went off into the darkness and apparently stopped there, leaving me and the car on the roadway for anybody to run into.”

“Well, he hasn’t been here,” the girl said, with a decision that was evidently characteristic of her. “Wait until I get a lantern and we’ll look for him.”

Lady Clevedon followed Mrs. Lepley and her daughter into the house, and for a minute or two Miss Kitty Clevedon and I were left together in the porch. She could have followed the others into the house, but for some reason preferred to wait outside. Possibly she wanted to see what I would do. She did not look at me—I noticed that—but stood near the door, not quite with her back to me, but so that if it had been light I could not have seen her face. She did not speak to me, but I had of course no intention that she should get off as easily as that.

“I hope your arm is better,” I said, speaking softly, so that no sound of my voice might reach those inside.

“I beg your pardon,” the girl returned icily.

“I was expressing the hope that your arm was better,” I explained.

“But there is nothing the matter with my arm—thank you.”

The girl’s voice was perfectly cool and without the slightest sign of flurry or perturbation.

“I may congratulate you on a wonderfully quick recovery, then,” I responded.

“I do not understand you—what was supposed to be the matter with my arm?”

“I was told—it was rumoured—that you had cut it—climbing a wall—a wall with glass on top.”

“I do not climb walls.”

“I don’t suppose you make a hobby of it, but every one does queer things now and again.”

“Such as addressing impertinent observations to a lady one meets for the first time,” she rapped out.

There was a rather lengthy pause, and then I made one more attempt to break down her defences.

“I was very sorry to hear of the—the tragedy at White Towers,” I said softly. “It was a queer coincidence—”

But if I thought to disconcert her by that remark I had miscalculated. She made no reply, but simply walked a few steps away and left me standing. Her acting was perfect. I could not forbear a smile, though at the same time I admired both her courage and her cleverness. Anyone less alert would have admitted our meeting and tried in some way to secure my silence. She did nothing of the sort, but ignored the whole matter, putting up a big bluff in the assurance that since there had been no witnesses to the little midnight incident I should hesitate to tell the story lest I should not be believed. Of course I knew very well that if I had really been guilty of the impertinence of which she had accused me she would not have received it quite in that way. However, I had no opportunity for further efforts because just at that moment the Lepley girl reappeared with a shawl over her head and a big lantern in her hand, her mother and Lady Clevedon following her.

We went slowly along in a sort of zigzag, going for six or eight yards to the left of the roadway and then recrossing it and covering a similar space on the opposite side. It was a lengthy process and it was wasted time, because, as we neared the car, we saw Hartrey standing by it, looking from left to right into the darkness, evidently with rather dismal forebodings.

“He’s there!” Miss Kitty Clevedon cried in accents of relief, but the tone in which her ladyship echoed the phrase was quite otherwise. The latter approached the car and demanded to know what Hartrey meant by leaving her alone there on the high road and why he had not gone to the farm to deliver her message.

“I lost my way, my lady, in the darkness,” the man replied. “I found myself at the bend of the road higher up—”

“Now, Hartrey,” her ladyship said severely, “when I engaged you I gave you extra wages on condition that you should be teetotal.”

“My lady, I have not touched anything of the sort for nearly seven years.”

“And you—what is your name?” the old lady demanded, turning suddenly on me.

“My name is Dennis Holt and I live at Stone Hollow,” I replied, amused and not at all offended at the old lady’s brusqueness.

“Oh, yes, I know, nephew to Mrs. Mackaluce. I remember hearing about you from Dr. Crawford. Well, thanks for your help. Now, Kitty, come along. Good bye, Mr. Holt.”

“Can you find your way back all right?” I said, turning to Nora Lepley, who had stood silent during the conversation and whom the old lady had not thanked.

“But I live here,” she replied, with a quick laugh, “and I don’t always come home by daylight. Good night, Mr. Holt.”

Old Lady Clevedon had amused me hugely. She was evidently what the country people would call “a character” whose acquaintance might be worth cultivating. But it was the pretty niece who attracted all my attention, and I made up my mind that I must become interested in the tragedy at White Towers. There might be no connection between that and Miss Kitty Clevedon’s midnight wanderings. The latter might be susceptible of the most innocent explanation. But it was in that case a queer coincidence, and though I am far from denying that coincidences play a large and weighty part in human affairs, I instinctively distrust them. This might be one, but until I could prove the affirmative I preferred to admit a possible negative, or at all events to keep an open mind.

CHAPTER IV
THE SILVER-HEADED HATPIN

The Midlington evening papers reached Cartordale about seven o’clock. To accomplish that they had to be printed somewhere about 3.30 p.m., and accordingly were rather early editions. Nevertheless, the one I saw contained a very good account of the Clevedon tragedy, though, as I could well see, reading between the lines, one which the police had carefully supervised. The press and the police work in very much closer accord than most people realise. They help one another, and the wise newspaper man never gives away anything the police desire to keep secret. In return for that the press receives all sorts of information otherwise inaccessible to it. I have many thousands of newspaper cuttings, all carefully indexed, of which I make good use in the compilation of my books. Newspapers give the facts that are known with creditable accuracy, though really what remains unknown is frequently the more important. The whole story is not always told.

And the press may and often does materially assist the police. If the latter wish to publish some item broadcast, the description of some individual, particulars of a missing weapon, details that may bring further items and possibly produce an unsuspected clue, they go to the press, which very quickly and efficiently gives them all the publicity they want. They do not deliberately keep things from the press. Any such attempt defeats its own end. It is the reporter’s job to get news and he is an expert at it.

But if you tell the press all you know with a reservation as to what may not be published, the secret is safe enough. In a very long and varied experience I never knew a newspaper man to break a promise or violate a confidence. Some journals, of course, make a speciality of crime investigation on their own account, and clever enough they are at it. But even they will suppress an item of news if the police ask it, and frequently when they discover some fact unknown to the police will inquire before publishing whether it is desirable or safe. The ordinary man’s idea that the press thinks first and only of its news column is a delusion. Very often a newspaper knows a lot more than it says.

From the account in the Midlington evening paper I learnt that Sir Philip Clevedon had dined alone soon after seven o’clock. At the conclusion of dinner he retired to his study according to his usual custom. At a quarter past eight he received a visit from Miss Kitty Clevedon, who had motored over from Hapforth House, the residence of Lady Clevedon, with a message to Mrs. Halfleet, the housekeeper. Miss Clevedon left before nine o’clock, and at 11.30 Sir Philip rang for his man Tulmin and ordered a whisky-and-soda, giving also some instructions regarding a contemplated journey to London on the morrow. Tulmin went off to bed, and thereafter was a long blank from 11.30 or so until between six and seven o’clock in the morning, when Miss Nora Lepley found Sir Philip lying dead on the couch in his study with the hatpin driven through his heart. Those were the facts out of which the reporter had made several columns. But the summary is sufficient for my purpose.

There was, of course, a description of the hatpin, which was eight inches long, with a flat, circular head of silver about the size of a shilling and a three-sided or three-cornered blade of steel that tapered off to a very fine point—an unusual hatpin that more resembled a silver-headed skewer or stiletto. It had been driven into the body so that the head was close up to the white shirt-front—as far as it would go, in fact—but any bleeding had apparently been internal, since there was none discernible either on the exterior of the body or on the clothing.

I made a careful note of the times. Tulmin had last seen his master alive at about 11.30. It was 11.53 when the girl tapped at my window. When I had read the newspaper story I sent for Martha Helter, my housekeeper.

“Who is Lady Clevedon?” I asked her, “and what relation is Miss Kitty Clevedon to Sir Philip?”

“It is a little bit complicated, you see,” she said, seating herself on the extreme edge of a big arm-chair. “Lady Clevedon is the widow of the late baronet who died some years ago—before the war, anyway. She was Miss Ursula Hapforth before her marriage, and when her husband died she went back to Hapforth House, which had been left her by her father, whose only child she was. The Hapforths are older than the Clevedons in these parts.”

“But perhaps not so wealthy?”

“Oh, I don’t know for that. They have plenty of money.”

“And this Sir Philip—was he her son?”

But I recollected that her attitude had been anything but that of a bereaved mother when I saw her a short time before.

“No, she never had any children,” Martha told me.

“Oh, then—but go on, Martha.”

I had been about to remark that Miss Kitty was not, therefore, Lady Clevedon’s daughter, but had thought better of it. I should get more out of Martha, I reflected, by allowing her to tell her story in her own way.

“This Sir Philip was a cousin of the other baronet,” my housekeeper went on, “and next to him comes Mr. Billy Clevedon, who is Miss Kitty’s brother. He is in the army. They say that he and Sir Philip quarrelled, and there are all sorts of rumours about. Miss Kitty lives with Lady Clevedon. I believe she has some money of her own, though I don’t know how much. Her father was a rector down in Cornwall, but he’s been dead a long time now.”

“And this Sir Philip—where did he come from?”

“From somewhere abroad, I think. He was not very young, perhaps forty-five, and he wasn’t married. We didn’t see a lot of him in Cartordale—he lived mostly in London. He was not friends, they say, with Lady Clevedon, though I should not think they had really quarrelled. He was a stiff, solemn sort of man, and not very popular.”

In point of fact the Clevedon title was one of the oldest surviving baronetcies, though there had been Clevedons in the Dale long before James I invented baronets as a new means of raising revenue. The Clevedons had all been politicians of varying degrees of importance, frequently unimportant. A minor Minister or two, a Colonial governor or so, a small Embassy, all urbane, honest, honourable, but occasionally unintelligent personages, belonging to what one might describe as the great Official class, which has ruled England since the days of the Tudors, doing most things badly but generally with clean hands.

But the late Sir Philip Clevedon was something of a mystery. No one had heard of him until the death of his cousin had given him the title. He had never been in Cartordale before that, and was entirely unknown even to his relatives. They had no idea even where he lived. Rumour was almost equally divided between America and Australia, but without any real foundation, since he himself vouchsafed no information on the point. Among the people of the Dale, as Martha indeed had told me, he had not been popular. He was too chilly and unemotional in his manner and, being frequently absent for lengthy periods, took no real part in the life of the Dale and, apparently, little interest in its concerns. To many of the inhabitants he was not even known by sight.

All this is a summary not only of what Martha told me, but of what I subsequently gathered.

When I had finished with Martha I went out and met Detective Pepster strolling in casual fashion through the village. I should have missed him in the darkness but that we stepped at the same time into the light cast across the roadway by the “Waggon and Horses,” Tim Dallott’s roadside inn, famed far and wide among visitors to the Dale.

“You haven’t been to arrest me yet,” I said, as Pepster returned my salute.

“No,” he replied, with a placid grin, “we are giving you a little more rope.”

“You have taken a load off my mind,” I returned cheerfully. “But are you quite sure? Sudden temptation, you know, and—and so on.”

“Ah, you are pulling my leg, Mr. Holt,” Pepster replied affably.

“But you did suspect me,” I urged, wondering how far the detective might be amenable to pumping.

Some of them are, but not those who know their job.

“Well, suspect—that’s rather a big word,” Pepster said thoughtfully. “You see, the law says a man is innocent until he is proved guilty, but a detective who knows his business proceeds the other way about. Everybody is guilty in his eyes until the facts prove their innocence. There is only one man I am absolutely sure did not commit this murder, and that is myself, but nobody save me has any call to be sure even of that. Now you, for example—could you prove an alibi for that night if I took it into my head to charge you?”

“We will suppose I could not—for the sake of argument.”

“Just so, but then, you see, something else is required. Society is based on a notion that ordinary, normal men act in an ordinary, normal manner and don’t go about murdering each other for the mere fun of the thing. It is like people walking along a city pavement while motor-cars are dashing to and fro in the roadway. The three or four inches by which the pavement is raised are no protection at all should a motor-car take a sudden swerve, but pedestrians go ambling quietly on in the knowledge that the normal thing is for motor-cars to keep their own place, and that when they go wrong it is because something has happened. Yes, Society is based on the prevalence of the normal. When you hear, for instance, that one man has killed another, you take it for granted there was a reason—what we call a motive. And the motive is vital. Sometimes the why of a murder reveals the who, and sometimes the who explains the why. But the two must go together.”

“Your philosophy is both interesting and accurate,” I said. “And what of the hatpin?”

“Ah, the hatpin,” Pepster replied thoughtfully. “But that may have been an accident and not the woman in the case.”

“The woman?” I said inquiringly, my thought going instantly to my midnight visitor. “Yes, of course, a hatpin does suggest a woman, doesn’t it?”

“There may be a woman in it,” Pepster went on, gently garrulous, “but I don’t know that the hatpin brings her in. Some woman owns the hatpin, no doubt, but that isn’t to say that she used it. Though it does help things wonderfully to get a woman into a case, even though it may complicate it. No doubt there would be a man in it too. There generally is. Women seldom play a lone hand. But they have always been a fruitful source of crime in men ever since Adam had to declare that the woman tempted him and he did eat. I have always thought ill of Adam for that—for telling, I mean. It’s not the sort of thing a real man would have blurted out. But for all that it was true—it was true then and it has been true ever since. Women—”

“And as you say,” I interrupted gently, “it would be a woman’s hatpin.”

“Oh, yes, it would be a woman’s hatpin. Sir Philip Clevedon didn’t wear them—not that I ever heard. And we have identified it, you know. It belongs to Lady Clevedon and, as far as I can make out, Miss Kitty Clevedon borrowed it when she went to see the housekeeper earlier that evening. It will be in all the papers to-morrow. There seemed no particular reason to keep it secret.”

“According to the newspapers, Miss Clevedon went to see the housekeeper, Mrs. Halfleet,” I observed. “Did she take her hat off? Where did she leave the pin?”

“Those questions have been asked and answered,” Pepster replied. “She was caught in a shower of rain on her way to White Towers and took off her hat to dry it. She does not recollect where she laid the pin down, but it must have been somewhere in the housekeeper’s room. She did not see Sir Philip Clevedon and did not enter the study where later the body was found.”

“The housekeeper—?”

“Knows nothing of the hatpin—does not remember Miss Clevedon laying it down, and in fact never saw it until she was brought to her dead master. It was Lady Clevedon herself who identified the hatpin and told me all about it.”

“So that instead of one woman you have three,” I murmured.

“Yes, three women but not the woman. Hullo! there’s Dr. Crawford, and I want to speak to him.”

He nodded a quick farewell and went off with long strides after the doctor. Considering his bulk and his apparently leisurely methods of thought and speech, Pepster was curiously quick and active in his movements.

“Do you know Mrs. Halfleet?” I asked my own housekeeper when I again reached home.

“Oh, yes, quite well,” she replied. “I have known her for years. A little stand-offish in her manner, but quite pleasant face to face.”

“About how old would she be?” I queried.

“Oh, well, let me see. I am—yes, she must be quite sixty, perhaps a year or two older.”

“Not a young woman, anyway.”

“Oh, dear no, not a young woman. She is the widow of a minister, a Methodist, I think, who was at a church in Midlington when he died. That must be a good sixteen years ago. Lady Clevedon, who was living at White Towers then, her husband being alive, brought her in as housekeeper, and the present—I mean the late—Sir Philip kept her on. She is sister to Mrs. Lepley, but far more of a lady—”

I switched the conversation on to other lines, leaving Mrs. Halfleet for later investigation.

The case, you will note, has advanced another stage. The weapon has been identified. The queer hatpin, with the three-cornered blade and the silver knob, was the property of Lady Clevedon, who lived at Hapforth House. Miss Kitty Clevedon borrowed it and so conveyed it to White Towers where, apparently, she left it. That was all very interesting and quite simple, but probably irrelevant. The question was not who had owned the hatpin or who had worn it, but who had used it.

The question of time becomes interesting here. Tulmin, the valet, had seen his master alive at 11.30, and the girl had visited me at 11.53. She certainly had committed no murder at White Towers in that interval. It was a physical impossibility. I had carefully assured myself regarding that. It would have required at the very minimum another fifteen or twenty minutes. But I had lost her in the darkness somewhere before 2 a.m. As I have already said, it was seven minutes past two when I reached Stone Hollow again on that night (or rather early morning), and allowing for the time I stood after she had evaded me, and for the walk homewards, I judged that it would be about 1.15 when she disappeared into the darkness. What had her movements been after that?

It must not be supposed that I suspected the girl of having had any hand in the tragedy, though I by no means ruled her out. Her beauty and youth did not weigh with me at all. I had found both in even greater measure in proven criminals. Besides which, a murder is not invariably a crime.

But I had two ascertained facts—that Kitty Clevedon had worn the hatpin to White Towers, and that she had been abroad in the Dale during the early hours of that tragic morning.

CHAPTER V
KITTY CLEVEDON AND RONALD THOYNE

I met Sergeant Gamley, the officer who had called on me in company with Detective Pepster, and I asked him whether the public would be admitted freely to the inquest.

“Well,” he said slowly, “I suppose they have the right, but the accommodation is very limited, very. When the witnesses and the lawyers and the family and the police and the reporters and people who must be there are squeezed in there’ll not be a lot of room for outsiders. Did you want—ah, now, I am looking for another juryman. Stokkins has fallen ill. How would you like—?”

“Excellent!” I interrupted. “As long as you don’t make me foreman it will suit me very well. I should like to hear the story in full—being a neighbour, you know.”

I did not add that it would also afford me an opportunity of seeing the body without making any obvious attempt in that connection.

It was an ordinary country jury, consisting mostly of farmers, with a small shopkeeper or two, and Tim Dallott, landlord of the “Waggon and Horses,” as foreman. We visited the chamber where the body lay, but it did not add anything to my knowledge except that I was able to form some idea what the man had looked like in life, which did at least add to the interest of the mystery.

An inquest is a singularly useless form of inquiry at its best. It is doubly and trebly so when the police use it, as frequently they do, for purposes of their own, to conceal the truth rather than reveal it. The real duty of the jury is to determine the cause of death, for, though it may declare that So-and-so was a murderer, the actual demands of the law are satisfied if the jury simply decides that a murder has been committed. A coroner who knows his business does not travel far outside the brief allotted him by the police, and generally manages—though not invariably—to keep his jury within the limits assigned himself.

I have had a long and very varied experience of inquests and was not, therefore, surprised that the inquiry regarding Sir Philip Clevedon’s death should be merely formally opened and then immediately adjourned, for the purpose, it was stated, of a post-mortem examination. I regarded that as a mere subterfuge—in which, as it happened, I was wrong—and easily realised that the police did not want as yet to tell all they knew, which in its turn suggested that they had some sort of a line on the murderer and did not desire to give him (or her) any information.

Meanwhile I busied myself making some very careful inquiries regarding Miss Kitty Clevedon. Through her midnight visit to me, I was in possession of some information so far not within the knowledge of the police, unless, indeed, she had herself told them, which I doubted; and I intended, for a bit at all events, to keep it to myself. Exactly what connection she had with the tragedy I could not say, but I meant that she should tell me—in which determination I reckoned without Kitty Clevedon. I met her as she was walking from Cartordale to Hapforth House. She was warmly clad in furs and, a little flushed by the wind that was blowing smartly across the moors, was looking very pretty and attractive. She saw me approaching her and, curiously enough, made no attempt to avoid me. In point of fact, I expected a direct “cut,” but she stopped as I drew near and even held out her hand.

“Fancy meeting you, Mr. Holt!” she cried.

“I have just been to Hapforth House,” I replied, wondering what might be the explanation of her unexpected cordiality, though I fancy that what she really had in mind was to show that at least she did not fear me. “I—well, in fact,” I went on, “I wanted a word or two with you.”

“With me!”

“May I turn and walk back part of the way with you?” I asked.

“Why, of course,” she replied. “I always prefer company if I can get it, and it’s none too plentiful here. I am used to lonely walks, though one can have too many of them. A woman likes to talk, you know, but one cannot converse with stone walls.”

She rattled on, rather intent apparently on doing most of the talking, as if she did not wish to give me an opportunity. But I merely bided my time, knowing the chance would come; and presently she seemed to realise that, because she interrupted her flow of chatter and turned as if waiting for me to speak.

“You wanted—was it about something particular?” she asked.

The words were all right, but the mocking smile in her eyes, and the set of her pretty lips, rather belied them. She was preparing to meet her adversary with a woman’s weapons.

“It is about the night of the—of the murder,” I began slowly.

“Yes?” she said.

“And of your visit to my house.”

She put up her hand and with a pretty gesture pushed back an unruly curl, meeting my gaze firmly and frankly and without any sign of disquiet.

“But—my visit to your house, Mr. Holt. I do not quite understand. Am I supposed to have visited your house on the night of the—?”

“You intend to deny it?” I asked. “Well, if you consider that worth while I suppose I could not prove it. After all, it would be merely my word against yours. But isn’t such a subterfuge between us two just a little—shall I say—grotesque?”

“Suppose you tell me all about it,” she said quite tranquilly. “Perhaps I have lost my memory. Such things do happen, don’t they? But then there is generally a railway accident, isn’t there, or a motor smash. And I haven’t even knocked my head. Do tell me all about it, Mr. Holt.”

I could not help admiring the skill with which she kept me at arm’s-length. It was grotesque, of course, as I had said, but it was wonderfully clever. Whatever her object, she certainly lacked none of the gifts and qualities of an accomplished actress.

“Doesn’t your attitude suggest,” I said, “that you have—er—something to conceal?”

“Does it?” she asked, opening her eyes wide. “I wonder what it can be? Oh, yes, the night of the—the tragedy. Are you suggesting by any chance that I murdered Sir Philip—is that what you mean, Mr. Holt? Speak out if it is—please do not hesitate.”

“I did not say that.”

“But then what have I to do with it all?” she demanded, stamping her foot as if she were really angry. “You must tell me what you mean, Mr. Holt. You have said too much not to say more. What is it you suspect? You hint at this and hint at that, but say nothing straight out. It is a cowardly way to attack a woman.”

Her voice broke artistically, and she seemed to be on the verge of tears. It was all very cleverly done, and I confess I admired her, though that did not turn me from my purpose. I have had to deal with women in all sorts of moods and every possible disguise, though Kitty Clevedon at that moment was less a woman than a clue in skirts and furs.

“The matter is quite simple,” I said, deliberately brutal, in the hope of startling her out of her calm. “I was only wondering what view the police, for example, would take of your midnight adventure.”

“You had better go and tell them,” she flamed out. “They might believe you, you know.”

“You were in my house on that night,” I said, and waited to see if she would deny the visit even to me.

“So you said before,” she retorted.

“Do you, then, wish to deny that you were in my house on that night?”

“Would you believe me if I did deny it?”

“Of course not—how could I?”

“Then why should I trouble to deny it? You ask me a question and answer it for me, and tell me you will not believe me unless I adopt your answer. That is a convenient method of cross-examining—put the question and invent the answer.”

“And yet you will not deny it—why not deny it and have done with it?”

“Mr. Holt,” she said slowly, “I do not know what you mean.”

That was definite enough, and we walked along for some minutes in silence, the while I considered whether I should press her further just then or carry my inquiries in another direction. I was, however, relieved of the responsibility of immediate decision, for at that moment a man turned the bend of the road and, seeing us there, came towards us and greeted Kitty with the familiarity of an old acquaintance. She on her part welcomed him joyfully, though whether that was from pleasure at seeing him or because he provided a way of escape from further questioning, I did not attempt to decide.

The new-comer was tall and rather heavily built and gave an impression of immense physical strength. His manner was bluff and frank and his eyes kindly and intelligent, but the lines of his mouth were hard, as of a man who had had to fight his way and would be little likely to give quarter to an opponent. He looked like one who wanted much anything he did want, and would leave nothing undone that might secure it. “Honest in a way, but a tough customer,” was my own private summary, and I wondered who the man was.

“I was just going to Hapforth House,” he said, smiling, as he addressed Kitty Clevedon, though the stare he bestowed on me was none too friendly.

I noticed that Kitty made no move to introduce us.

“Oh, yes, Auntie told me she was expecting you—some business matter, isn’t it?” she said. “I warn you there may be a warm half-hour before you. Good-bye, Mr. Holt. It was very kind of you to come this far with me. Mr. Thoyne is going my way.”

I accepted my dismissal smilingly and made a careful note in my mind of the man’s name. Anyone with whom Miss Kitty Clevedon was acquainted became a person of interest worth knowing. On my way to Stone Hollow I met Dr. Crawford, a Scot, rough of tongue and occasionally almost brutal in manner; but he was implicitly trusted by the Dale folk, who regarded suavity and gentleness with suspicion, and politeness as a form of hypocrisy. He had come to them from a country even wilder and sterner than their own, and was thus able to fit in with their moods and to understand their temperament, which, to strangers, seemed to be compounded of a mixture of sullenness and stupidity. He was one of the very few people in the Dale with whom I had struck up any sort of intimacy, possibly because he had been my late aunt’s medical attendant and a witness to the will that had given me Stone Hollow.

“Do you happen to know a man named Thoyne?” I asked after a few preliminary remarks.

“Yes; don’t you know him?”

“Am I supposed to? Is he one of those persons whom not to know is proof of one’s own insignificance?”

“Oh, I would not say that, though it is a little curious that you should have been some weeks in Cartordale without hearing about Ronald Thoyne.”

“Well, apparently I have heard about him,” I replied, “or I shouldn’t be asking you questions regarding him.”

“I am not exactly one of his intimates,” Dr. Crawford said. “He is an American who fought in the war with the French Army before the Yanks came in. He was wounded or gassed, or possibly it was shell-shock. At all events he came to England and was for some time in hospital, but he seems perfectly fit again now. He settled here at Lennsdale, which stands away up there on the hill-side. You can just see the house through that opening. He is certainly wealthy and gives generously, which is perhaps one reason why he is popular round here. He is bluff and hearty, but rather too ready with his fists to fit our modern notions of law and order. A good man to avoid a quarrel with, I should imagine. He is very strong on the war and indignant with his own country for holding off as long as she did. That is about as near a character-sketch as I can give you.”

“Good. I must make his acquaintance. Is he very friendly with Miss Kitty Clevedon?”

“Well, there have been rumours—matrimonial—but nothing definite. If they are formally engaged I haven’t heard of it.”

The doctor turned into a small cottage standing by the roadway, and I walked on alone to Stone Hollow.

CHAPTER VI
A NEW SENSATION

It was in Dr. Crawford’s surgery the day before the resumed inquest that I met Lady Clevedon again. A little to my surprise she recognised me, though, as far as I knew, she had only seen me in the dark, and greeted me by name.

“I wanted to know you, Mr. Holt,” the old lady said. “You were a popular theme of conversation when your aunt’s will became known, and everybody wondered what this London nephew might be like.”

“May I suppose that he, even though distantly, approaches expectation?” I said.

“Oh, I don’t know that we really harboured expectations,” Lady Clevedon retorted bluntly. “I had seen your photograph, so that your features do not come upon me with any overwhelming sense of novelty. Mrs. Mackaluce showed me the portrait.”

“Yes, I know she had one,” I said. “I found it in the house. But I don’t know how she got it.”

“I think she said her lawyer procured it for her. ‘I quarrelled with his father and mother,’ she told me, ‘and I’m not going to make it up with him. But he is the only relative I have in the world, and he has only me, and I shall make him my heir.’ Are you really as lonely as all that, Mr. Holt?”

“Lonely?” I echoed, perhaps a little vaguely. “Oh, you mean the only relative—no, it’s not quite so blank as that. True, my relatives do not worry me much, but there are some about somewhere.”

“Are you going to settle in Cartordale?” she demanded. “It’s slow enough as a rule, though there is excitement just now, more than enough. Sir Philip Clevedon stabbed and with my hatpin—it was my hatpin, you know—”

She closed her lips together with what was almost a snap, as if she feared to say too much. But she was not constructed for long silences.

“That man Peppermint, Peppercorn—”

“Pepster,” Dr. Crawford murmured.

“Ah, yes, Pepster—thinks I did the murder. Where did I last see my hatpin? Did I leave it at White Towers? ‘My good man,’ I said, ‘I haven’t been in White Towers for three years.’ Wasn’t I friendly with Sir Philip? Had I quarrelled with him? when did I last see him? Of course I had quarrelled with him. Philip Clevedon was always quarrelling with somebody. He was—but there, he’s dead now.”

She paused again and began to draw on her glove.

“The late baronet wasn’t exactly popular—?” I began.

“Popular!” the old lady cried explosively. “Popular!”

She left it there and, indeed, she had no need to go into further detail. Her inflection on the word was sufficient.

“But, anyway, I didn’t kill him,” she went on. “There is a lot of difference between a desire to box a man’s ears and stabbing him with a hatpin. If I stabbed everybody I quarrelled with I should have some busy days.”

“It was your hatpin,” I murmured, possibly in the hope that I might irritate her into talking, a plan which, if indeed I had really formed it, Dr. Crawford frustrated.

“Well, anyway, you did not kill Sir Philip Clevedon,” he said roughly.

“You are a true friend,” the old lady cried, with grim and satirical humour. “Thank God! somebody believes me innocent. If I come to the gallows—”

“I know you did not kill him,” the doctor repeated half sullenly, but with so much emphasis that I could not help wondering what was behind it.

“How can you know?” Lady Clevedon cried. “Perhaps I did. I have felt like it many a time, anyway. And it was my hatpin—as Mr. Holt reminded me. Pepperpot suspects me at all events. But here comes Kitty.”

The old lady drew Dr. Crawford aside and began to discuss with him some matters connected, I fancy, with village doings. Kitty Clevedon and I were left by ourselves in the huge bay window that looked out over the rough, uncultivated garden. The girl made no effort to avoid my company but greeted me with a cool tranquillity that was, however, of that careful variety which suggested some anxiety to show that she was not afraid of me. For my part I merely returned a conventional reply and stood looking out into the garden, leaving it to her to open a conversation or not just as she thought proper. I took it that, being a woman, she would, and I was not far out.

“Your gaze on that garden seems very intent, Mr. Holt,” she said, with a bewildering smile. “Are you looking for something?”

“Well, perhaps,” I responded, with a smile. “You see, I am always on the look-out—for your double.”

“My double! Have I a double? How delightful!” she cried.

“Yes,” I said gravely, turning once more to the garden; “a double—someone so exactly like you that it is very difficult to distinguish you. I should like to find her—that other one. But I have had no luck, none at all.”

“Are you so very anxious to find her?” Kitty asked, bringing that smile once more to bear as she saw that my eyes were turned again in her direction.

“At this moment, none at all,” I responded lightly. “I find my present company fully adequate.”

“Is it that I make an efficient substitute? How very sweet of you to say so,” Kitty murmured, with a quick glance downward as if at the slender toe of an exceptionally pretty shoe.

“No, I do not remember saying that,” I replied. “You see, you are you and she is she—”

“‘And never the twain shall meet’—isn’t that Kipling?” Kitty demanded.

“I think it may be quite safely asserted,” I said, with grim meaning, “that you will never meet your double.”

She flushed a little at the thrust but maintained otherwise her smiling calm.

“But when did you meet her, Mr. Holt—did you ever tell me?” she asked, with a delightful assumption of candour and innocence.

There was never a cleverer actress on or off the stage than Kitty Clevedon.

“Oh, she flitted into my life through my study window—and then flitted out again—into the darkness—”

“Leaving you desolate—how very unkind of her!”

She broke off with a quick trill of pretty laughter that was not at all affected and in which I joined her.

“It sounded a trifle sentimental, didn’t it?” I said, and then added with tranquil insolence, looking her this time full in the face, “but isn’t there a proverb about better to have seen and lost than never to have—oh, and that reminds me. I asked Dr. Crawford where I should find another young lady like Miss Clevedon and he replied, ‘Impossible—there isn’t one. God broke the mould when He made her.’ But there is another one, I know, because I have seen her, and—”

“I should want a very solemn affidavit indeed to make me believe that Dr. Crawford ever said anything so pretty as that,” she interrupted.

I had expected to make her angry but she seemed only amused.

“Oh, you don’t know the doctor,” I said airily. “He is capable of much. But he was wrong in this case—the double exists.”

“I shall ask him if he said it.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Why?”

“Oh, well, you know, he might ask some awkward questions in his turn. You see, I have never told anyone yet about your—double. I don’t think I should care to entrust him with the secret.”

“But why let it trouble you, Mr. Holt—why not forget it—and her?”

“Oh, I am not allowing it to trouble me.”

“You seem to be always talking about it.”

“I have never mentioned it to a soul except yourself.”

“I should think—” Kitty began, then turned away to meet Lady Clevedon, whose conference with Dr. Crawford had just terminated.

The old lady stood glaring at me for a moment or two.

“I dare say you think that we—Kitty and I—take this—this tragedy very calmly, Mr. Holt,” she said.

“I don’t know that I thought about it at all,” I responded.

“Women sometimes wear a mask, Mr. Holt.”

“Yes?”

“It may be for a purpose or it may be by habit.”

“Yes.”

I glanced quickly at Kitty and found her surveying the old lady with sombre eyes from which all the laughter had fled. She at all events had been wearing a mask.

When the two ladies had gone Dr. Crawford and I sat down to a whisky and soda apiece and a cigar. He seemed ill at ease, restless and rather unhappy until I casually reintroduced the subject of the Clevedon mystery, then he seemed in some curious way to brighten up.

“Aye, murder cases,” he said reflectively. “A murder case can be very interesting, you know—morbid but fascinating.”

I agreed without at all grasping his meaning.

“You are a student of criminology and you have written books on the subject,” Crawford went on. “Did you ever run up against a case of poisoning with prussic acid?”

“Several times,” I replied. “It is a frequent and formidable poison because it is so swift and unerring in its effect. The victim is dead before help can possibly reach him.”

“That is true,” Crawford agreed. “Death may be a matter of seconds, of minutes at most. But, now, tell me, have you met cases in which a man, having taken a dose of prussic acid, lies calmly down and is found as tranquil and orderly in posture as if he had died in his sleep?”

“Oh, yes,” I said. “Indeed, I should say the majority of cases were like that. Prussic acid is said to produce convulsion, frothing at the mouth, and so forth. Those do take place, and may in every instance, though there are cases in which no evidence of them remains.”

“Just so,” Crawford agreed, nodding his head. “But, now suppose it were a case of suicide by prussic acid, would you expect to find the bottle near at hand?”

“In nine cases out of ten—yes,” I responded.

“And in the tenth?” he asked eagerly.

“There might have been some other way of administering the poison—wasn’t there a case of prussic acid in chocolates—?”

“Would it be possible for a man who had taken prussic acid to conceal the bottle?”

“Possible, yes, but—”

“And if no bottle were found you would regard it as a case of murder?”

“If the murderer had any sense he would leave the bottle near at hand to give the appearance of suicide.”

“But murderers—sometimes forget—these little—”

“They do, fortunately for the law. Nine murderers out of ten are hanged by their own mistakes. But what is your sudden interest in poison cases? Have you one in—?”

“I have—Sir Philip Clevedon—”

“Sir Philip Clevedon!” I echoed, for once surprised into showing my astonishment.

“Aye,” Dr. Crawford said slowly. “He died from prussic acid poisoning and the hatpin was thrust through his heart—after he was dead.”

CHAPTER VII
EVIDENCE AT THE INQUEST

I took my place at the jury table for the resumed inquest with considerably quickened anticipations. Dr. Crawford’s story had introduced new factors into the case which promised added interest and a still more involved mystery, though with a possibility of suicide and, it might be, a vivid and fascinating life story. Not that I indulged in any speculations. I wanted only facts and those I expected the inquest to afford. I was not disappointed. Of course, the doctor’s evidence startled everybody.

“And what was the cause of death?” the coroner asked, when Dr. Crawford had concluded his preliminary evidence.

“The deceased died from poisoning by hydrocyanic acid,” was the reply.

This was news to most of those present, including the reporters, who began to write feverishly, those representing the evening papers, anyway. Here was a new fact, one even they, so far, had not been allowed to know.

“That is what is known as prussic acid, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“The hatpin you have already described to us was not the cause of death?”

“The deceased was dead when it was inserted.”

“Would it have caused death had there been no poison?”

“Possibly, but not certainly. Death at all events would hardly have been so rapid. With that wound the deceased might have lingered for some time, for days even.”

“He might eventually have recovered?”

“Yes.”

The coroner paused for a moment or two, then glanced at Pepster, who shook his head slightly. For some reason or other the police were not eager to pursue that particular line of questioning.

Dr. Crawford’s further evidence and that of the police surgeon from Peakborough, who followed him, was largely devoted to what one might describe as the technique of prussic acid poisoning, unnecessary to detail here. There was, however, one little fragment of evidence worth repeating.

“On a small table by the side of the couch on which the deceased was lying was a bottle half full of whisky, a siphon of soda-water and a glass. I took charge of them and later Dr. Crimley and myself analysed the contents.”

“With what results?”

“None.”

“You found no trace of prussic acid?”

“None.”

“Was there any liquid in the glass?”

“Yes, about half an inch.”

“What was it?”

“Water.”

“No whisky?”

“No”

“And no prussic acid?”

“Not a trace.”

I glanced at the reporters again and saw that they were writing their hardest. The trained newspaper man is never at fault when it comes to selecting evidence. He seems to know by instinct what is crucial. The longest report of any case does not represent more than a twentieth part of the evidence actually given, but the points are all there always. And the reporters knew quite well that the absence of poison from the bottle and siphon might make all the difference between suicide and murder. Had the whisky been poisoned Sir Philip Clevedon might have put it there himself. There was, of course, the fact that the apparent absence of any medium through which the poison could have been administered added to the puzzle, and the press dearly loves a mystery—at least its readers do, and newspapers that live by their readers wisely enough live for them also.

The next witness was John Tulmin, a little, thin man, not more than about five feet three in height and correspondingly meagre in build, who had been the late baronet’s personal servant, possessed, apparently, of sufficient education occasionally to do secretarial work for him. At all events he opened Sir Philip’s letters and typed the replies dictated by his employer. But he also acted as valet and was apparently as clever with clothes brush and razor as he was with the typewriter. He gave his evidence clearly and without hesitation, and seemed quite unaware of any reason why he should be an object of considerable interest to Police, Press and Public.

“At what time did you last see Sir Philip Clevedon alive?” the coroner asked him.

“At thirty-three minutes past eleven.”

“You are very precise.”

“I am precise because I am stating the fact.”

“What enables you to fix the time?”

“As I was leaving the room Sir Philip asked me for the time and set his watch.”

“Was that usual with him?”

“Oh, no, but he had complained during the day that his watch seemed to be losing.”

“Good! He asked you the time and you told him—”?

“Eleven thirty-three.”

“Was that from your own watch?”

“Yes”

“And your watch was right?”

“Yes.”

“You are quite sure of that?”

“Absolutely.”

“And what happened then?”

“He said, ‘That will be all, Tulmin, good night.’ I replied, ‘Good night, Sir Philip,’ and had reached the door when he called me back. ‘And, by the way, Tulmin,’ he said, ‘waken me at eight o’clock. I want to catch the 10.15 to London. Order me the car at 9.30 will you.’ I said, ‘Very good, Sir Philip,’ and then I left the room, closing the door behind me.”

“He told you to call him at eight o’clock?”

“Yes.”

“And to have the car round at 9.30?”

“Yes”

“Because he was catching the 10.15 to London?”

“Yes”

“That is a very important matter, gentlemen,” the coroner said, turning to the jury. “It has some bearing on the possibility of suicide.”

I glanced at Pepster, whose face was wrinkled in a quiet grin. Really, such orders had no bearing at all on the question of suicide—they were just such as a man might give who had determined to take his own life but desired to conceal the truth. A person bent on suicide—though “temporary insanity” is usually the verdict of kindly juries—can manifest very considerable skill, and frequently does, in covering up the real mode of his exit from this life. Scores of cases of “accident”—according to the verdict—in my experience have been suicide disguised. Men and women who have been killed on the railway, or run over by motor-cars, or drowned while bathing, or shot while cleaning a gun, or swallowed poison from bottles labelled something else, have carefully arranged those happenings, chiefly for the benefit of insurance companies. Suicide is much more frequent than is generally supposed, and it is far more often the result of careful calculation and arrangement than of insanity, temporary or otherwise.

“Did Sir Philip give you any order when he rang for you?” the coroner went on, continuing his examination of Tulmin.

“Yes, he told me to bring him a whisky and soda.”

“You did that?”

“I brought him a bottle of whisky, a siphon of soda-water and a glass, and I placed them on a small table which I drew up to the side of the couch on which Sir Philip was reclining.”

“How much whisky was there in the bottle?”

“It was about half full.”

“Where was this bottle kept?”

“It was on the sideboard in the dining-room. Sir Philip always had whisky and soda for dinner.”

“Was the bottle you took him at night the same bottle out of which Sir Philip had had whisky at dinner?”

“Yes.”

“You are sure of that?”

“Yes—quite. I poured it out myself at dinner.”

“You see the point of my question?”

“I am not sure—”

“No; but we will return to that later. As far as you know, the bottle you took Sir Philip was the one from which you had given him whisky at dinner?”

“I am quite sure it was the same.”

I confess I did not quite see the bearing of that question, but I gathered from Pepster’s attitude that he, at all events, attached some importance to it, and I was content to wait.

“Did Sir Philip drink only one brand of whisky?”

“Yes, sir, always the same; Lambert’s Blue Label.”

“How many bottles have you of that?”

“I am not quite certain, but about eight dozen, I think.”

“Now let us come to the following morning. How did you hear of the—the tragedy?”

“Miss Lepley awakened me, and I went straight to the study.”

“You saw the small table by the side of the couch?”

“Yes.”

“Was the whisky bottle there?”

“Yes.”

“And the siphon and the glass?”

“Yes.”

“Just as you had put them the night before?”

“Yes.”

“Now here is the bottle of whisky that was found on the table by Sir Philip’s side”—Pepster produced it from a bag he had been hitherto carefully guarding—“is that the bottle from which you gave your employer a drink at dinner and which you left with him at night?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How do you identify it?”

“It’s Lambert’s Blue Label, sir.”

“But that is a popular brand, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yes, I believe it is, sir.”

“You could buy a bottle in Midlington, for example?”

“Yes, sir, at several places.”

“Are there any special marks on this particular bottle?”

“No, sir, I don’t think so.”

“Then how do you identify it?”

“It is Lambert’s Blue Label, and—”

“Just so, and we may leave it there. As far as you know, that bottle is the one from which you gave Sir Philip his drink at dinner, and which you took him at night, but there are no marks on it which enable you to identify it positively.”

“Well, of course, one bottle of Lambert’s Blue Label is very like another.”

“Precisely. Did you notice the glass?”

“Not particularly.”

“Could you say whether it was the glass you took Sir Philip?”

“It was the same sort of glass.”

“Quite an ordinary glass?”

“Oh, yes.”

“There are many glasses of that type in the house?”

“Yes, sir, several dozen, I should think. The housekeeper or the butler would know.”

“Just so. There was nothing special about the glass, any more than about the bottle?”

“Nothing, sir.”

That was the end of this very curious cross-examination, the exact bearing of which did not occur to me immediately.

The next witness was Miss Nora Lepley, niece to Mrs. Halfleet, the housekeeper. The name seemed familiar to me, and for a moment or two I puzzled over it. But when I saw the girl, I remembered. Indeed, she was not of the type that is easily forgotten. It was the girl of the farm-house at which we had called in search of Lady Clevedon’s missing chauffeur. It seemed that she was staying with her aunt, Mrs. Halfleet, for a few days, and she it was that made the first discovery of the tragedy.

“It was you who found Sir Philip’s—er—who first saw—?”

“Yes, sir, I found Sir Philip lying dead on his couch in the study.”

“At what time would that be?”

“About seven o’clock.”

“And how came you to be the first to enter the study?”

“Nobody was allowed to tidy Sir Philip’s study except my aunt, and she had to be there when the maids were cleaning. But when I was staying with her at White Towers, I sometimes looked after it for her. Sir Philip knew, and didn’t object.”

“Were you friendly with Sir Philip?”

“Oh, no, not particularly. I seldom saw him, and when I did he generally didn’t speak to me. He wasn’t very—very—”

“Is genial the word?”

“Yes, that would fit.”

The girl smiled, but quickly composed her features again.

“Now let us come to this particular morning. Tell me exactly what happened.”

“My aunt wakened me and said would I straighten Sir Philip’s study for her, as he would be down early. I think she said he was going to London.”

“What time would it be when she wakened you?”

“I should think about a quarter to seven. I can’t say to the minute, because I did not look at my watch.”

“And what happened then?”

“I dressed, and went downstairs to the study. As I opened the door I saw that the light was still burning, and that Sir Philip was lying on the couch. I thought he had fallen asleep there overnight. I went to him and put my hand on his shoulder, intending to waken him, and then I saw—”

She paused there, and her face whitened a little at the recollection.

“You saw that he was dead?”

“Yes.”

“Had you tried to awaken him?”

“Yes, I had shaken his arm.”

“And then?”

“I ran out of the room and fetched my aunt who sent me for Mr. Chinley—”

“That is the butler?”

“Yes, and then I went for Mr. Tulmin.”

“Was he awake?”

“Oh, yes. Indeed, he was half dressed.”

“Did he open the door directly you knocked?”

“Yes, I—I think so.”

“But you would not be sure of that?”

“No, I may have knocked twice.”

“Did Tulmin go with you immediately to the study?”

“Yes, and then he ran off for the doctor.”

“And what did you do?”

“I remained with my aunt and Mr. Chinley in the study until the doctor came.”

“And now I want you to consider very carefully this next question; when you saw that Sir Philip was dead, did you examine him at all?”

“No, I did not wait for that. I ran straight out to bring help.”

“Did you notice the hatpin?”

“No, I saw nothing of it.”

“Does that mean that it wasn’t there, or that you did not notice it?”

“It may have been there. Indeed, I suppose it must have been, but I did not see it.”

“You formed no idea as to how he had died?”

“I formed no ideas of any sort. I think I was too frightened and upset.”

“Thank you, Miss Lepley,” the coroner said. “You have given your evidence very clearly.”

“I am sorry I could not remember about the hatpin,” she replied.

“Oh, well, I have no doubt we shall trace it in time. And now we will have Mrs. Halfleet, the housekeeper.”

CHAPTER VIII
THE STORY OF A QUARREL

The inquest, as far as it had gone, afforded no leading at all. We had not even learned how the poison had been administered, for though there had been some suggestion of possible juggling with the whisky bottle and glass, there had been nothing definite. But it was the hatpin that puzzled me most. One might regard it as certain, at all events, that Sir Philip Clevedon, even if he had voluntarily taken the poison, had not thereafter stabbed himself. One could only suppose that it was the murderer’s effort to make absolutely sure that his work was complete. Without the hatpin it might have been odds in favour of suicide.

Mrs. Halfleet, the housekeeper, was a tall woman, something past middle-age, with black hair lightly streaked with grey, and dark eyes of a peculiarly penetrating quality. I wondered for a moment if or where I had seen her before, and then I realised that it was her likeness to her niece that had impressed me. She was very alert, both mentally and physically, answered the questions in full and without hesitation, and yet with a curious air of detachment as if, after all, it were no particular business of hers. She described events already dealt with here, and generally corroborated the evidence that had gone before.

“I want to ask you now about this hatpin,” the coroner said, picking up the pretty but sinister little weapon. “You were the first to discover the—the use to which it had been put.”

“Yes, I saw it and called Mr. Chinley’s attention to it.”

“Had you seen it before?”

“Not that I can recollect.”

“You had a visitor during the evening?”

“Yes, Miss Clevedon.”

“Did she remove her hat?”

“Yes, she had been caught in the rain, and her hat was very wet. I advised her to take it off and dry it before my fire.”

“Did she do that?”

“Yes.”

“When Miss Clevedon took off her hat, did you see her remove the pin?”

“I cannot remember.”

“Did you see where she put it down?”

“No.”

“You did not see her put it on the table, for instance, or the mantelpiece?”

“No.”

“You did not notice it lying about after she had gone?”

“No.”

“Did Miss Clevedon see Sir Philip?”

“She went to his study.”

“Do you know whether she saw him?”

“No, she went straight out after that, and did not return to my room.”

“Did Miss Clevedon resume her hat before she went to the study?”

“No, she was carrying it in her hand.”

“You are sure of that?”

“Yes, I remember her remarking that it was still damp, and that she would put it on when she got outside.”

“You do not recollect whether she had the hatpin in her hand?”

“No, I do not remember that.”

“Did Sir Philip Clevedon have any other visitors?”

“One, earlier in the evening.”

“Before or after dinner?”

“Before dinner—about six o’clock.”

“Were you present at their interview?”

“No, I was in the little room that leads off the study.”

“What is that room used for?”

“Only to store books. It is completely lined with shelves that are full of books. I was engaged dusting them.”

“You heard someone enter the study?”

“Yes”

“Could you overhear the conversation?”

“Not while they spoke in ordinary tones; only when they raised their voices.”

“Did you recognise the visitor?”

“Yes, it was Mr. Thoyne.”

I glanced at Thoyne, who had started from his seat as if with intention to intervene, then resumed it again as one who had thought better of it.

“Were they—was it a friendly interview?”

“Well—they disagreed—”

“I protest, Mr. Coroner,” Thoyne cried explosively, rising to his feet.

“If you desire to give evidence later—” the coroner began suavely.

“I have no desire to give evidence—I have none to give,” Thoyne cried. “This interview which was purely private, took place hours before the—the tragedy, and had nothing to do with it.”

“Please be silent, Mr. Thoyne,” the coroner said a little sharply, “and allow me to conduct the inquiry in my own way. You shall, if you desire, have an opportunity later.”

He turned again to Mrs. Halfleet.

“You said that Sir Philip and Mr. Thoyne disagreed—did you learn the cause of the—?”

This brought Thoyne once again to his feet and I did not wonder at it. The coroner had evidently his own particular method of conducting an inquiry.

“Once again I protest, Mr. Coroner,” he said, his face flushed darkly with anger. “This was a purely private conversation and had nothing to do with—”

The coroner took absolutely no notice of him this time but simply repeated his question to Mrs. Halfleet though in a slightly different form.

“Did you gather over what it was that Mr. Thoyne and Sir Philip Clevedon—quarrelled?”

“There was no quarrel,” Thoyne interjected.

“It was over—a lady,” Mrs. Halfleet responded slowly.

I began now to see something of the drift of this apparently irregular questioning. There was more behind it all than appeared to the casual observer. I glanced almost furtively at Miss Kitty Clevedon but found her perfectly calm and tranquil though her face was dead white.

“Was the lady’s name mentioned?”

“No.”

Curiously enough, the coroner did not appear to be disappointed by that reply and it also had the effect of quietening Ronald Thoyne. His lips moved in a quick smile and he settled himself back in his chair with an air of obvious satisfaction. What they might say about himself apparently did not worry him.

“Could you hear what they said when they raised their voices?”

“I heard Sir Philip say, ‘You are talking nonsense. I cannot compel her to marry me against her will. The decision rests with her.’ He was not exactly shouting but was speaking a little more loudly than usual. Mr. Thoyne seemed angry. ‘You must release her from her promise,’ he said. His voice was hoarse and he struck the table with his stick as he spoke. I think Sir Philip stood up from his seat then. I did not see him, of course, but I seemed to hear him walking up and down. And he spoke sharply, almost angrily. The words appeared to come with a sort of snap. ‘I have nothing to say in this matter,’ Sir Philip declared. ‘I neither hold her to her promise nor release her from it. The decision rests solely with her. If she notifies me that she cannot marry me I have no power to compel her. But I am not prepared to take your word for it. The decision must come from herself.’ Mr. Thoyne said ‘That is your last word, is it?’ to which Sir Philip replied, ‘My first word and my last. As far as I am concerned I am engaged and remain engaged until the young lady herself notifies me that the engagement is at an end.’ Then Mr. Thoyne said, ‘If you don’t release her I shall find a way of making you—I shall find a way.’”

“Upon which,” Thoyne rapped out sarcastically, “I poisoned him with prussic acid. It certainly was an effective form of compulsion.”

“Silence!” cried a police officer.

“Silence!” Thoyne echoed irascibly. “It is a time for silence, isn’t it, when I am virtually accused of murdering Sir Philip Clevedon? This lady has a marvellous memory, hasn’t she?”

“You will have an opportunity of giving evidence and of denying—” the coroner began.

“I am denying nothing,” Thoyne interrupted half sullenly. “The story is all right as far as it goes. Sir Philip Clevedon probably stood nearer a thrashing than ever in his life before. But I didn’t poison him nor did I stab him with a hatpin.”

I happened just then to glance casually at Pepster, who was seated a little behind the coroner and who was watching Thoyne with a keen, intent gaze as if anxious not to miss the smallest trifle of word or gesture. I began to read some method into this curiously unconventional inquest episode.

“And what happened then?” the coroner asked, turning to Mrs. Halfleet.

“Mr. Thoyne went out of the room banging the door behind him.”

“Quite true, Mr. Coroner,” Thoyne cried. “I went home—to get the prussic acid. I had forgotten to take it with me.”

The coroner took no notice but turned to Mrs. Halfleet.

“Had you heard anything previously of Sir Philip’s engagement?”

“No.”

“Had not heard his name coupled with that of any lady?”

“Never a whisper.”

Mrs. Halfleet was asked a number of further questions, chiefly regarding household arrangements and with special regard to glasses and bottles. But she added nothing to the information already set forth. And it all appeared very tame after the Thoyne sensation. As she left the witness’s chair, Ronald Thoyne sprang to his feet.

“Do you intend to call me, Mr. Coroner?” he demanded.

“No,” replied the coroner, “I have nothing to ask you. Do you desire to tender any evidence?”

“No, I know nothing about it.”

“Then,” said the coroner suavely, “we’ll have Lady Clevedon.”

The old lady took her seat in the chair and sat bending a little forward, her hands on her knees.

“Is this your hatpin, Lady Clevedon?”

“Yes.”

“Do you identify it as your property?”

“I have already told you it is mine.”

“Do you know how it got to White Towers?”

“If you mean did I go and stab—?”

“I did not mean that, Lady Clevedon. I asked you a very simple question. Do you know how that hatpin got to White Towers?”

“I do not.”

“Did you lend it to anyone?”

“No.”

“But you are sure it is your property?”

“For the third time—yes.”

“Is there any special mark on it?”

“I do not know of any.”

“There might be other pins like it?”

“There isn’t another like it in the world.”

“You knew the late Sir Philip Clevedon well?”

“Oh, yes.”

“And you were good friends with him?”

“Nobody was good friends for long with Philip Clevedon. He was—”

She pulled herself up, pursing her lips.

“You were going to say?”

“Something one ought not to say of a man who is dead.”

“Had he any enemies?”

“Plenty, but not of the murdering sort.”

“Had you heard of his engagement?”

“He did not confide in me!”

“You had not heard of it?”

“I had not.”

Again I happened to glance at Pepster and saw him gazing as intently at Lady Clevedon as he had done at Thoyne. For the most part he had sat listening to the evidence with partly closed eyes, as if it were very little concern of his. Only with Ronald Thoyne and now with Lady Clevedon had he seemed at all keenly interested. Evidently there was more in Sir Philip’s mysterious engagement—known apparently to Thoyne, but not to Sir Philip’s own relatives—than had appeared. The coroner glanced sideways at Pepster, who nodded his head slightly as if answering an unspoken question in the affirmative, upon which the coroner thanked Lady Clevedon for her evidence and dismissed her.

CHAPTER IX
WHAT KITTY CLEVEDON SAID

The next witness was Miss Kitty Clevedon herself and I confess I awaited her coming with more than ordinary interest. Of one thing I was certain, that she would say exactly what she wanted to say and not a word more, and that no intrusive scruples would confine her too urgently to the truth, unless, indeed, the fact that she was on oath might have any influence with her, which I doubted. I have always found that a woman’s conscience is in that respect far more elastic than a man’s. She took her seat in the witness’s chair and glanced round her with thoughtful calm, nor was her tranquillity in the least abated when she saw me watching her. There was certainly not the faintest suggestion in her manner that my presence disturbed her in the slightest, or, indeed that she had ever so much as seen me before. The coroner took up the hatpin.

“Have you ever seen this before?”

“Many times. It belongs to Lady Clevedon.”

“Have you ever borrowed it?”

“Often.”

“Did you wear it when you visited Mrs. Halfleet on the day—er—the day of Sir Philip Clevedon’s—er—decease?”

“Yes.”

“Will you kindly detail the circumstances of your visit to White Towers?”

“Lady Clevedon asked me to convey a message to Mrs. Halfleet regarding some parish business, the clothing club at the church of which Lady Clevedon is president and Mrs. Halfleet is secretary. On my way I was caught in the rain and my hat was soaked through. Mrs. Halfleet advised me to dry it at the fire in her room and I did so.”

“You say you were caught in the rain—did you walk to White Towers?”

“No, I went in my own motor, a little two-seater which I drive myself.”

“There was no one with you in the car?”

“No one.”

“You used this hatpin to secure your hat?”

“Yes.”

“And of course took it out when you removed—?”

“Of course.”

“What happened to the hatpin when you resumed your hat?”

“I do not recollect.”

“Could you wear that hat without a pin?”

“Oh, yes, I frequently did. Sometimes I use a hatpin and sometimes not. That particular hat fits very close and I pull it well down.”

“Now I want you to be very careful in answering the next few questions as they are exceptionally important. You are sure you had the hatpin when you visited Mrs. Halfleet?”

“No, I am not sure.”

“You said—”

“Yes, but that was because I don’t see how else it could get here. The use of a hatpin is more or less mechanical, you know, and sometimes I wear one and sometimes I don’t. I think I brought it here but I cannot remember either putting it in my hat or taking it out.”

“You would not swear then that you had it?”

“No, nor that I hadn’t. I cannot remember.”

“It is hopeless, then, to ask you where you laid it down?”

“Quite, I am afraid. If I had it with me I should take it out without thinking and lay it down anywhere.”

“Where were you standing when you took your hat off?”

“Before the fire.”

“You might possibly lay the hatpin on the mantelpiece?”

“I should think that a very likely place.”

“But you cannot recollect?”

“No, I cannot remember anything about it.”

“How long did you remain with Mrs. Halfleet?”

“Oh, about half an hour, I should say.”

“Where was the cap during that time?”

“It was in the fender drying.”

“Was it dry when you took it up?”

“Drier than it was, but still damp.”

“When you put it on again, can you remember whether you used the hatpin?”

“No, I cannot remember for certain, but apparently I did not.”

“Can you suggest any reason why you should want a hatpin when you left Hapforth House, but did without one when you were going from White Towers?”

“No, I cannot explain it.”

“When did you again remove the hat?”

“When I reached home.”

“Didn’t the absence of the hatpin strike you then?”

“No, I didn’t think of it. I could not even say for certain that it was absent.”

The coroner sat for a moment or two drawing figures on his blotting-paper, then turned suddenly towards her.

“Did you go out again that night?”

As Miss Kitty Clevedon looked casually round, our glances met and for a brief second her eyes held mine, hardly in questioning, certainly not in fear, but with some subtle suggestion I could not then interpret.

“No,” she said with inimitable composure, “I did not go out again.”

That might have been perfectly true since it was at least possible that she had not gone straight from White Towers to Hapforth House. Though it was hardly possible she could have been absent all the evening without some remark. If, on the other hand, she was lying, and I had good reason for knowing that she possessed all the qualities essential to success in that very difficult art, then her midnight expedition had been secret. It was a tangle that would have to be straightened out later, and so far, I hadn’t either end of the string in my fingers.

“Did you see Sir Philip Clevedon?”

“No, I went to his study, but he was not there and I did not wait.”

That is all the evidence it is necessary for me to detail here, nor need I reproduce the address of the coroner, who carefully examined in his summing-up the possibilities of suicide, and rather discounted them.

The jury retired into the study—the room in which Sir Philip’s dead body had been found—to consider their verdict. It was not quite such a simple matter as one might suppose. My fellow jurymen were deeply impressed with the heavy responsibility thrust upon them, quite unnecessarily so, since a coroner’s verdict does not matter a snap of the finger one way or the other.

“Now, gents all,” said Tim Dallott, our foreman, “the question is—suicide or murder? Why should he want to commit suicide? And if he did, where did he hide the bottle? You, Mester Hapton”—this to a big, heavy man with a vast head, a considerable farmer in the Dale—“what do you say?”

“Well,” said Mr. Hapton slowly, “there’s no knowing.”

“But you’ve got to know one way or the other,” Tim Dallott cried. “You’ll have an opinion.”

“No, I don’t know as I have,” was the deliberate reply.

“Then we’ll say murder, eh?”

“No, I’m not so sure—”

“Well, suicide?”

“Ah, but then, you see—”

“Well, if it wasn’t suicide, it was murder, and if it wasn’t murder it was suicide—”

“Aye, that’s right,” Mr. Hapton cried, brightening up a little.

Fortunately, I was the next to be interrogated, and I snapped out my answer even before our foreman had completed his question. “Murder, undoubtedly,” I said, not because I had really any such certainty, or had made up my mind on the matter, but in order to get the thing settled. My very unrural promptitude gave the cue to the rest, and “murder” went round with affecting unanimity.

“Now, Mester Hapton,” Tim Dallott added, “everybody but you’s said murder—you’ll not stand out.”

“I’m not one to be contrary-like,” Mr. Hapton said. “But murder—it’s an ugly business, that.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter very much,” I interposed. “We’re not going to hang anybody this afternoon.”

“Nor not to mention no names,” our foreman put in. “Persons or person unknown—that’s what it is.”

“Ah, well,” Mr. Hapton said, with a gloomy shake of the head, “if you’re all set on murder, murder let it be, but it’s an ugly word.”

And that was our verdict—“Murder by some person or persons unknown.” But, for my part, like Mr. Hapton, I wasn’t at all sure. And, curiously enough, the hatpin was not so much as mentioned.

It was the day following the inquest that I met Detective Pepster in the village.

“Ah, good morning, Mr. Holt,” Pepster cried, as I joined him. “How is Cartordale using you these times? Have you settled down amongst us?”

“More or less,” I replied. “This place rather improves on acquaintance. I think I would like to see a summer here.”

“Yes, it’s all right in the summer, if the summer is all right,” Pepster rejoined dryly. “But our summer isn’t much to rave over. It doesn’t last long enough.”

“No, that’s true. And how is the mystery getting on?”

“The mystery?” Pepster echoed. “Oh, you mean the murder. It isn’t getting on. I was just coming along to see you.”

“To see me!” I cried.

“Oh, I’m not going to arrest you,” he returned, with a soft chuckle. “No, not at all. But do you know Kelham, of Scotland Yard? I had a letter from him to-day. ‘Dennis Holt is living in your neighbourhood,’ he said. ‘Ask him who murdered Clevedon.’ Now, what does he mean by that?”

“Kelham—yes, I know Kelham very well,” I replied. “He is a humorist.”

“Well, I wish he’d let me in on the joke, anyway,” Pepster said discontentedly. “Do you know who murdered Sir Philip Clevedon?”

“No,” I said, “not yet. For that matter, I don’t even know that he was murdered. But I shall find out, and then I’ll let you know.”

“Do you belong to the Force?”

“Not at all.”

“Then are you—?”

“Sherlock Holmes disguised,” I said with a laugh. “Why not? Anyway, Kelham is no fool. Why not take his advice and let me come in? Not that you can keep me out, but it’s easier. I am not a detective, not at all, but merely a writer of books. Still, I have discovered a few little things that have been useful to the police and especially to Kelham.”

“Are you quite sure you will know who—?”

“Oh, yes,” I replied. “I am quite sure I shall know eventually. But whether the knowledge will be of any use to you is another matter. I only solve the mystery, but you have to prove the case.”

“Yes,” Pepster said thoughtfully, “and that is a different thing, isn’t it? I may have a good idea who did it, but where is my proof? But as to letting you in, it seems I can’t help myself. I showed Kelham’s letter to the Chief Constable this morning. ‘Dennis Holt?’ he said. ‘Is he at Cartordale? Did he come down especially for this?’ I told him, no, that you’d been living here and that you’d been on the jury. ‘Go and see him,’ he said. ‘Talk it over with him. Tell him everything.’ And there you are.”

“Just so,” I replied. “And I’ll make the same bargain with you I did with Kelham and his crowd. What I discover I will pass on, but I don’t appear in it publicly. Do we work together?”

“Why, yes, certainly,” Pepster said. “Since both Kelham and the Chief insist on it I should be a fool to stand out.”

We strode along in silence for a few minutes.

“Of course,” Pepster remarked, “there are a few matters that haven’t—come out.”

“There always are,” I replied, thinking of Kitty Clevedon’s midnight visit regarding which, at present, at all events, I intended to say nothing.

“For example, that valet, John Tulmin,” Pepster went on. “Why should Sir Philip Clevedon have given him a cheque for £500 the day before he was—before he died?”

“That certainly hasn’t come out. Did he? And did Tulmin cash it?”

“Oh, yes, there was no particular secret about it. The counterfoil of the cheque-book seemed quite plain, ‘John Tulmin, £500,’ and the money was paid out to Tulmin by the bank in Midlington at 11.30 on the morning of the day Sir Philip was—died. The bank knew Tulmin well. He had often transacted business for Sir Philip. Now, suppose that cheque was a forgery, or suppose it had been made out for £5 and Tulmin altered it to £500, or suppose the money was really for household expenses, and Tulmin stuck to it and Clevedon discovered it or Tulmin feared discovery, and so—”

“There would be your motive, certainly,” I agreed. “Has Tulmin explained the cheque?”

“Well, not in detail.”

“Has he been asked?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“That it was money owing him. ‘What about this cheque?’ I asked him. ‘Oh, the governor owed me that,’ he said. But when I wanted something a bit more definite be dried up.

“Any other cheques of that sort?”

“No, I don’t know. I might inquire.”

“Perhaps it was salary.”

“No, Tulmin’s salary was paid monthly—£20 a month. This is an extra.”

“And he declares it is money owing?”

“Yes.”

“Well, perhaps it was,” I said, as we drew up outside the little post office where I had to make a call. “Anyway, I don’t think I would arrest Tulmin just yet. Tell the Chief you have that from me.”

But what I wanted to know more than anything just then was why John Tulmin was blackmailing Sir Philip Clevedon.

CHAPTER X
AN INVITATION FROM LADY CLEVEDON

“Oh, Mr. Holt,” cried the young lady behind the counter of the little general shop that was also the village post office. “I have just taken a telegram for you. You can have it now if you like. It’s against the regulations, but that doesn’t matter.”

I took the yellow slip and perused the message which was from a publishing firm with whom I was negotiating, offering me a price for a manuscript I had submitted to them.

“It is a lot of money,” the girl said, with a touch of envy. “It would take me years and years to earn that at this job.”

“You’ll not be here years and years,” I replied smilingly. “Some lucky man will snap you up long before that.”

“Well, there’s no queue so far,” the girl returned dryly.

“Perhaps when Mr. Holt has quite finished, other customers may have a turn,” said a mocking voice at my elbow, and wheeling round with a quick movement that dislodged a pile of picture post cards and albums and brought them clattering to the floor, I saw Kitty Clevedon’s face flushed with pretty colour.

“I beg your pardon,” I said. “I was just reading a telegram.”

“I have been down to Stone Hollow,” Kitty Clevedon went on. “In fact, I have been looking for you. I have a message for you from Lady Clevedon. She would like you to come and see her.”

“Yes? When?”

“Well, could you come now? I have my car here.”

I nodded assent, and followed her out of the shop to the smart little two-seater, which she managed with a skill that betokened plentiful practice. As we drove off I saw Pepster walking slowly through the village.

“I don’t know that man,” Kitty said, as Pepster saluted, “but I have seen him about quite a lot lately. And he was at the—the inquest. I suppose he belongs to the police.”

“Yes, a detective. He is very interested in me.”

“I dare say you are a very interesting person,” Kitty rejoined equably.

“You see,” I went on, “I am under suspicion.”

She turned to have another look at Pepster, and the car swerved suddenly to the left.

“Steady on!” I cried. “You’ll have us into the wall.”

“But—I do not understand. Why should they—?”

“Oh, the story is very simple. The police knew I was out late on that particular night. Sergeant Gamley saw me. They questioned me, of course, and after all, it was a trifle—er—suspicious-looking, wasn’t it? Here was I, a new-comer and a stranger, wandering about the Dale at midnight—”

I paused and glanced at her to note the effect of my words; and was interested to see that she had grown perceptibly paler.

“But they—surely they didn’t suspect you?” she said, in tones that were very little above a whisper.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I returned cheerfully, “why shouldn’t they suspect me? They know nothing about me, and certainly nothing that would count particularly in my favour. At all events, they questioned me. Had I seen anyone that night? And I lied to them. I had seen nobody at all. There are occasions, you know, when mendacity may be condoned.”

Kitty gazed at me with wide-open eyes for fully a minute, then pulled herself together with an effort and laughed with a quite passable imitation of merriment.

“And had you seen anyone?” she asked.

“Yes,” I replied, smiling into her face. “I had seen a very beautiful and clever woman and an extremely capable actress whose ideas regarding truth are apparently nearly as flexible as my own.”

She flushed a little, but remained apparently undisturbed by either the compliment or the sarcasm.

“And which had committed the crime?” she asked. “Was it the beautiful and clever woman—you said beautiful and clever, didn’t you?—or the capable actress? But still, I don’t understand. I thought you were a great detective—a sort of Sherlock Holmes in real life.”

I threw myself back on the cushioned seat with a quick laugh.

“Where did you get that fairy story from?” I demanded.

“But—it’s true, isn’t it?”

“No,” I said, “I am not a detective, certainly not. And I am not a great anything, unless it be a great liar. I have had a little practice at that just lately.”

“But that is why auntie has sent for you,” she added, with a puzzled frown.

“Because I am a great liar?” I asked.

“No,” she replied, quite seriously. “Because you—because she thinks that you—somebody told her you were a great detective.”

“Oh, yes, and why does she need the services of a—er—a detective?” I demanded.

“She wants you to find out who murdered Sir Philip Clevedon.”

“I see. And do you want me to discover that?”

“Of course, but I don’t think you can.”

“If you thought I could, you wouldn’t want me to try—is that it?”

“No—oh, I don’t know what you mean.”

She gave all her attention to the car after that, while I, having nothing particular to say, lapsed into silence.

We found Lady Clevedon seated in the small parlour, a square, cheerful room, furnished evidently for comfort with couches and big arm-chairs. The old lady bade me sit down and then plunged with characteristic abruptness into the subject of the interview.

“What is your fee?” she demanded.

“My fee?” I echoed. “But I have no fee. I am neither a doctor nor a solicitor.”

“Nor a parson—you may as well complete the usual trio,” the old lady said dryly. “But you are a policeman.”

The word was so unexpected that I could not forbear a soft laugh in which, after a momentary hesitation, Miss Kitty Clevedon joined me. I expected her to label me detective; that she should call me policeman had all the elements of novelty that go to make up unconscious humour.

“But policemen are not allowed to take fees,” I replied. “They have their salaries—or is it wages?”

“Do you get a salary?” Lady Clevedon demanded.

“No, but then you see I am not a policeman; I am merely a writer of books.”

“But the Chief Constable of Peakborough—he is a cousin of mine, distant, but still a cousin, and a fool at that, or he would have found out before this who killed Sir Philip—told me you were a celebrated detective and that if I could get your help—now, who did murder Sir Philip Clevedon?”

“Did you?” I asked, rudely enough I admit though the question was well in accord with her own conversational style. Nor did she take it amiss.

“I? No,” she said. “Why should I murder him?”

“Then if you are quite sure of that,” I returned, “you have all the world to go at. I may have done it, or Miss Clevedon may have done it, or Tulmin may—”

“May, may, may—you tire me to death with your may’s. I don’t want to know who may have done it, but who did. I suppose it is a case of the needle in the haystack.”

“Even the needle in the haystack could be found, given the necessary time and labour,” I observed.

“I wish you would talk sense,” the old lady rejoined tartly. “I have had that fat man Peppermint, Peppercorn—”

“Pepster,” I suggested.

“Yes—I have had him here and pumped him hard. But he knows nothing, merely talks in a squeaky voice and gets nowhere. Now, how would you start discovering who—?”

I found the old lady interesting and decided to humour her, not because I intended to be of any use to her, but because it was just possible she might be useful to me.

“Well,” I replied slowly, “there are several starting points. For example, who benefits most by his death?”

“Eh!”

I happened to glance just then at Miss Kitty Clevedon and noticed that her face had gone an almost chalky whiteness that extended even to her lips and that she was gripping the arm of her chair with a strong, nervous tension.

“For instance,” I went on slowly, keeping my voice low and tranquil as if it were really a matter of small importance, “who is Sir Philip’s heir?”

But I still kept my eyes on Kitty Clevedon and noted that her grip on the chair tightened.

“Well, he didn’t do it, anyway,” Lady Clevedon retorted.

“No, I don’t suppose he did,” I returned, carefully refraining from raising my voice. “I merely said that he would be my starting point. Then, doubtless, he would prove an alibi and I should eliminate him.”

“Billy might have hit him over the head with a stick,” Lady Clevedon went on, “but he wouldn’t poison a man nor would he dig a hatpin into him.”

“Oh, you never know,” I replied cheerfully. “Who is Billy?”

“Sir William Clevedon—the new baronet—Kitty’s brother,” the old lady explained. “But he never poisoned Philip. They weren’t friends, certainly, but then, Philip had no friends. And they had quarrelled; though for that matter Philip had quarrelled with Ronald Thoyne, as you heard at the inquest. Philip was that way. He quarrelled with most people. But Billy didn’t do it. He is with his regiment in Ireland, trying to keep the Sinn Feiners quiet.”

“Then there is his alibi which rules him out,” I said.

But I made up my mind to learn more regarding Billy Clevedon. His sister’s agitation had been too pronounced to be disregarded; and it was the more impressive in that I knew her for a very clever actress with a singular capacity for holding her own and keeping a straight face.

What was it, I wondered, that had so completely upset her and smashed down all her defences. It did not take me long to decide that. She had been told that I was “a great detective” who would infallibly discover the murderer and practically my first observation had been a direct hint that her brother might be the man. A suggestion so libellous should have caused her to flame out in resentment and denial instead of which she had had to exert all her strength and will-power to keep herself from fainting. There was more in all this than one could sum up in a moment or two and I made up my mind then and there that Billy would become an object of great interest to me.

It was not difficult to learn all I wanted. The fact that most people referred to him as Billy Clevedon and that no one called him Sir William may indicate something of his general personality, though that would be to do him some injustice since the diminutive was partly born of affection and was partly a survival from bygone years. There were those who declared that his sister had been mainly responsible for the reputation Billy had enjoyed for juvenile mischief. I could well believe that, knowing her in maturer years. She would lead him on and he, being a little gentleman, would bear the blame.

But that after all is only the female way. Man was intended by Nature to carry every burden save one and that the heaviest of the lot. From my housekeeper to whom I first applied I learnt little. She had heard stories but had never known Billy Clevedon personally. I applied to both Dr. Crawford and the Vicar, but with hardly more success. They, too, had the usual legends off by heart, but Billy had never been ill and had no reputation for piety and seemed to have kept out of the way of both doctor and parson. Tim Dallott could tell me a little more but it consisted chiefly of reminiscences of Sunday rat-hunts and fishing. Among them all, however, I built up a picture of a freckled, yellow-haired lad, full of high spirits and mischief, but honest and never afraid to face punishment for what he had done. And somewhere, not far away, hovered incessantly the figure of his sister, as irrepressible as himself but far more adroit.

But all that was years ago when they came as orphans to live at White Towers, when Lady Clevedon’s husband was alive and before the late Sir Philip had succeeded to the title. In due time they both went away to school and Cartordale knew them only in the holidays. They were but shadows of their former selves as far as their general activities went, or possibly were more careful and clever at evading the results.

Eventually Billy Clevedon went into the army, but as a career, not merely as a war measure, and won some distinctions in France. But he justified his old-time reputation in that he remained apparently a somewhat incalculable quantity always doing the unexpected. His sister, having finished her education with more or less credit, accompanied her aunt to Hapforth House and settled there, though during the war she engaged in various occupations and learnt to drive a motor, milk cows, and use a typewriter.

CHAPTER XI
A VISIT FROM RONALD THOYNE

The “Waggon and Horses” in Cartordale was one of the best known inns in the district, with a history behind it that went far beyond the printed word into the mists and myths of legend and tradition. I believe, in fact, that it possessed its own duly authenticated ghost, that of a sailor on tramp towards the coast, who had been murdered for his gold by a rascally landlord and his wife. This was well over two centuries ago and it was a long time now since the sailor’s restless spirit had been seen. But the records of its appearances were definite and were at all events implicitly believed in by the Dale folk.

The inn was a favourite visiting place of holiday-makers from Midlington and on a fine Saturday afternoon or Sunday in the summer one might see sixty or seventy vehicles lined up in the wide open space before the entrance, while their passengers refreshed themselves within.

Tim Dallott, the landlord, was well known throughout the Dale and was highly esteemed. The new-fangled notion that an innkeeper is a sort of semi-criminal had no countenance in Cartordale, where they liked their ale and took it strong—as strong, that is, as a grandmotherly Control Board would allow them to have it.

And, whatever else Tim Dallott was, he was a judge of ale and would have only the best. Being an observer of my fellow-man, I had early made Tim’s acquaintance and had spent more than one interesting hour with him and his customers.

Tim, himself, was a masterful man, rather given to laying down the law, though with an occasional touch of humour that leavened his bluntness; and he had a curious habit of screwing the forefinger of his right hand into the open palm of his left when he was saying anything particularly emphatic. His build was inclined to stoutness and he was very bald for all he was still some years off sixty. His wife had died just before the war and he had neither son nor daughter. It was he, the reader will recollect, who had been foreman of the jury at the Clevedon inquest.

“Well,” he said, as I entered the ‘snug,’ “and what do you think of it all? I haven’t seen you since the inquest, Mr. Holt.”

“Give me a glass of beer,” I replied. “It puzzles me.”

“What I’d like to know,” chimed in old Tompkinson, who was verger at the parish church and gardener at the vicarage, “is why old Crimin”—have I explained that Crimin was the coroner?—“worried about that whisky bottle.”

“Aye, you may say that,” Tim agreed, nodding his head with an air of vague mystery.

“It seemed main foolish to me,” Tompkinson went on, “and I couldn’t get a grip of it nohow. Nobbut Crimin is a good crowner, I’m saying nowt agin him, an’ I dessay he’d summat oop his sleeve an’ all, but I’m fair bothered as to what it could be.”

“It’s bothering better men than you, Joe Tompkinson,” Tim Dallott said dryly.

“But ain’t you got no idea, Mr. Dallott?” Joe asked.

“Perhaps I have and perhaps I haven’t,” was the cautious reply. “Now what would you say about it, Mr. Holt?”

A little, shrivelled old man, who had been seated in a corner by the fire, sipping occasionally at a glass of hot rum, interposed suddenly.

“Who was the gal they quarrelled over?” he demanded in a shrill, piping treble. “I know who it was.”

“Then if I were you I’d keep it to myself, Jonathan Crossty,” Tim said. “No names—think what you like but don’t say it out loud—that’s safest.”

Jonathan nodded as if in agreement and returned once more to his hot rum.

“Now, that whisky bottle,” Joe Tompkinson resumed, “how could any man tell it was the same. ‘Taint in sense, is it? Then why worry?”

A youth came briskly in and asked for a glass of stout. He caught Joe’s last remark.

“Aye,” he said, “but there’s more than one theory will fit that.”

“You newspaper gentlemen are wonderful fond of theories,” Tim Dallott responded. “Your papers would be none the worse if you were a bit fonder of facts.”

The youth laughed good-humouredly and took a long drink at his stout.

“Well,” he said, as he set his glass down again, “suppose that X—we’ll not mention names, the libel laws being what they are—wanted to poison Z. ‘Bring me a whisky and soda,’ says Z. And X, as he brings the bottle, drops a dose of prussic acid in it. Good!”

“I see nowt good in that,” Joe Tompkinson interrupted.

“You should skin your eyes, then,” Tim Dallott retorted brusquely.

“Well, it’s good enough, anyway,” the pressman went on. “So Z drinks his whisky and falls down dead. Then X creeps in, takes away the doped bottle, and smashes it, and puts another of the same brand in its place. Could anyone tell that the bottle had been changed?”

“Meaning by Z, Sir Philip Clevedon,” Joe interposed, “and by X—”

“Didn’t I tell you to mention no names,” Tim interrupted angrily. “If you’re intent on dragging folk in by name go and do it outside and not in this snug.”

“No offence meant,” Joe replied meekly.

“Well—no names, and stick to that,” Tim retorted.

“But there’s another way,” the pressman went on oracularly, obviously in love with the sound of his own voice and delighted with the impression he was making. “Let’s suppose that X gives Z a drink of whisky at dinner and then puts the bottle on the sideboard. Presently Y creeps in and drops the dope into the whisky and then, when Z has pegged out, comes back and changes the bottles—how about that? Y would be somebody who had a grudge against Z—perhaps he had had a quarrel with him. But the point is here—nobody can swear it was the same bottle, that stands to reason.”

“You’ll not print either of these theories in your paper, I’ll bet a dollar,” Tim Dallott said.

“Perhaps, and perhaps not,” the youth returned vaguely. “That’s the editor’s job, not mine.”

“I know the gal they quarrelled over,” Jonathan Crossty chimed in suddenly.

“Who quarrelled over?” demanded the youth, wheeling round. “Oh, you mean—”

“I mean I won’t have any names in this snug,” Tim interrupted angrily. “Don’t I keep saying it? What a lot of cross-grained, gossiping old hags it is. X’s and Z’s are all right, but not names.”

“But that came out in evidence—that they’d quarrelled,” the reporter said.

“The girl’s name didn’t, and it might be anybody.”

“But I know who it is,” Jonathan persisted.

I finished my drink and nodding a good night all round took myself off, but not very far because I waited in the shadows until old Jonathan Crossty came hobbling out. I met him in the doorway.

“Hallo!” I cried. “Not home yet, Mr. Crossty?”

I swung round and we went down the road together. He lived in a little cottage nearly opposite Stone Hollow, and it was thus quite natural that we should be going the same way.

“And so you know the lady they quarrelled over,” I remarked, after a few preliminary observations.

“Yes,” he replied, “but I’m not telling. My grand-darter’s ’tween maid at Hapforth and she knows all about it. They quarrelled over her right enough.”

“Over your grand-daughter?” I queried.

“Over Lucy!” he said scornfully. “Don’t be a big fule, mister. Why should they quarrel over Lucy? She’s a good girl and she’s only sixteen. Don’t you go for to mix her up in this business.”

“No,” I said, “I’m sorry. Lucy, who’s as good as she’s pretty and—”

“Nay, she’s nowt to look at,” the old man said, with a chuckle.

“And so Lucy told you that both Sir Philip and Mr. Thoyne were in love with Miss Kitty—”

“She never said nowt o’ th’ sooart,” the old man retorted. “It’s none of her business, is it?”

“Not at all,” I agreed.

I changed the subject after that and we discoursed on various matters of no great interest to either of us until we parted at the gate of Stone Hollow.

Later, when I had dined comfortably and well, and was seated in my study smoking a cigar, Mrs. Helter, my housekeeper entered with the information that Mr. Thoyne had called and wished to see me.

“He says he will not keep you long,” Mrs. Helter explained, “and his business is not immediately pressing if you are otherwise engaged. But, if not, he says it would be convenient if you could see him now.”

“Mr. Thoyne,” I echoed. “H’m, that’s rather funny. But show him in, anyway.”

Ronald Thoyne entered the room a moment or two later, a large, rather lumbering figure in appearance but moving with a curiously alert lightness. His bulk signified strength, not fat. I rose and greeted him, then returned to my own chair.

“You will wonder why I have come,” Thoyne began, as he took the seat indicated and selected a cigarette from the box I offered him. Apparently, he wanted to maintain at least an appearance of friendship. “No, thanks, I’ll have nothing to drink,” he added, as I motioned towards the whisky on the table. “But, now, as to the reason for coming, well, in the first place, I have wanted to make your acquaintance. The fact that you are a near neighbour renders you—shall I say?—an object of interest. No, do not smile. If that had been all I should have waited. There is something else, but we shall come to that presently.”

I nodded, but offered no comment on these obviously preliminary observations. I was quite well aware that this was no mere friendly call—that Thoyne had some very definite purpose in his mind—and I was quite content to wait until it should suit him to disclose it. Thoyne, probably, had expected some sort of a reply, something that would, so to speak, open a conversation and for a moment or two he paused. But he did not allow my calculated silence to disconcert him.

“I dare say,” Thoyne began again, “that my manner may seem a little abrupt to you, Mr. Holt, but I always go straight to the point. Perhaps it would have been more tactful if I’d talked a bit first—yes. I have noticed that the people of these old countries like to go round and round the mulberry bush before they come to the point, but that is not our way—no, sir. I had a lesson on that from old Silas Pegler when I was a very young man. He was president of the Trans-Central and scores of other big things and he pulled all sorts of wires. I had to see him once about a deal and I began: ‘Good morning, Mr. Pegler, a fine morning, isn’t it?’ But he only wrinkled his ugly old face and glared at me. ‘Young man,’ he said, ‘I am here to talk dollars, not weather.’ And since then I have cultivated the habit of straight talk. It pays in New York but not so well in this country. A lot of people write me down as bad form and a man over here who is once labelled bad form had far better be dead and buried.”

I lay back in my chair and regarded my visitor smilingly. Certainly for a person who cultivated a habit of straight talk, he was singularly discursive.

“Are you intending to remain in Cartordale?” Thoyne asked, seeing that I remained silent.

“I shall be here for a little while yet, though I cannot say that I have made any definite plans,” I replied.

“But I mean as a permanent resident. You see, somebody, I think it was Dr. Crawford told me—hinted that you—. Now, if you wanted to sell this house, I’d like to buy it.”

The suggestion was so surprising that for a moment I had nothing to say, but I recovered quickly, knowing that if there was an explanation it would appear in due course.

“What are you prepared to offer for it?” I demanded cautiously. “Since, apparently, you want the house, you should be prepared to bid high for it. That makes a difference, doesn’t it? The seller who wants to sell would take less than—”

“Well, it’s like this,” Thoyne said persuasively. “I shouldn’t have thought of it but for Dr. Crawford. He gave me the idea. ‘I wish he were staying amongst us,’ he said, ‘but I’m afraid, he’ll not be here long! A very charming young—’ yes, those were his words.”

“Almost photographic in their accuracy,” I said dryly.

“‘But he wants a customer for his house—hankers after the fleshpots of London,’ said the doctor. And I thought that perhaps—”

“I believe I did make some such remark—casually,” I said. “But Dr. Crawford took it too seriously. This place improves on acquaintance. No, on the whole, I don’t think I want to sell.”

“But—”

“Oh, let us forget Dr. Crawford. I do not want to sell, therefore I must be tempted. It is your turn now—to tempt me.”

“I would give you—four thousand pounds.”

“The place isn’t worth that.”

“No, but I’m willing to give it.”

“Very good—it is yours. There is a charming little cottage just by the church that I could get for six hundred. It would suit me exactly.”

Thoyne frowned heavily and spoke as if choosing his words with some care.

“I should attach to my offer a condition—that you leave Cartordale—and do not return. For that I would make it five thousand.”

“Ah, now we really are getting to the straight talk,” I said smilingly. “Suppose we make it absolutely straight. You want to get me out of Cartordale—why?”

Thoyne sat silent for the space of fully two minutes.

“Straight talk doesn’t seem so easy as you thought—is that it?” I asked. “But you owe me some explanation surely.”

“The talk is straight enough,” Thoyne responded half sullenly. “I want to get you out of Cartordale—yes, that is true, and I have told you so frankly enough. What do my reasons matter? I am willing to pay.”

“Yes, it’s plain enough,” I returned. “I will be equally straight. I decline to go. Did Miss Kitty Clevedon send you here?”

“What has she to do with it—or you with her?” he demanded angrily.

But I saw easily enough that my chance shot had hit the mark. And I sat eyeing him thoughtfully for a moment or two wondering how far it would be safe to go.

“I suppose,” I said, speaking calmly, even casually, as if it were a matter of no great moment, “it was over Miss Kitty Clevedon that you quarrelled with the late baronet.”

“You have no right—” he began explosively but I pulled him up.

“Oh, yes I have,” I replied, “you see I am retained, in a semi-professional capacity—”

“Yes, I know,” he cried. “That damned old fool—”

“Meaning whom?” I interrupted.

“Oh, I beg her pardon,” he said. “Yes, I meant Lady Clevedon. Why did she want to drag you into it? You have a reputation, haven’t you, for solving such puzzles as—”

“Some little,” I agreed. “I shall solve this.”

“Yes,” he said, “and I don’t want it solved. At least, I want to see it buried and forgotten. The thing’s a damned nightmare. There, now it’s out. We want you to drop the case—to go away and leave it alone.”

“We?” I echoed. “Does Miss Clevedon know of this visit?”

“No, but she knows I am to try and persuade you to drop the case. She asked me—”

“It is for her sake you want me to leave it alone,” I commented. “It is not for yours.”

“Mine—no—it doesn’t concern me,” he replied, “except as everything that interests her, concerns me.”

“But—doesn’t concern you?” I asked. “Yet you were the last person known to have quarrelled with—”

“If you mean to accuse me of the murder—”

“I don’t,” I interrupted promptly, “but look at the sequence. You quarrel with Sir Philip Clevedon and a few hours later he is dead. Then a celebrated detective—that I am neither a detective nor celebrated is only a detail—is put on the case and you try to buy him off, to bribe him in fact.”

“It is a complete case,” he admitted, with a quick grin.

“Yes,” I agreed, “the sort of completeness that is too good to be true.”

“Not at all,” he added, as the grin widened. “I can already feel the rope round my neck.”

He ran his finger along the inside of his collar with a very expressive gesture.

“On the other hand,” I went on, still speaking with off-hand tranquillity, “though you did not murder Sir Philip Clevedon you think you know who did.”

He drew himself slowly up from the chair and stood over me with a face that had gone curiously grey.

“I have in point of fact already begun my inquiries,” I went on, rising in my turn and looking him straight in the eyes. “Why hasn’t Sir William Clevedon come to Cartordale to take up his title and estate? He left his quarters in Ireland on the 19th, three or four days before Sir Philip Clevedon died. He is still absent from duty. You can learn a lot by well-placed telegrams in a very short time. Where is he now? Where was he on February 23rd?”

I knew now what Thoyne and Kitty Clevedon feared. He stood glaring at me for a moment or two, then buttoned his coat with fingers that trembled.

“I’ll go now,” he said. “I don’t know that I have done anybody much good by coming here but it seemed the quickest and straightest way.”

He did not offer his hand nor did he say another word, but opened the door himself without waiting for my help and disappeared.

CHAPTER XII
RONALD THOYNE DISAPPEARS

The next move in this very curious game was made by Pepster who called on me a few days after my interview with Ronald Thoyne.

“I have a warrant for Tulmin’s arrest,” he announced.

“Yes,” I said, “I am not surprised. I could see you were edging that way.”

“It’s the right way. Tulmin has disappeared.”

“Has he? That is interesting at least.”

“Yes, he went from White Towers to Lennsdale—that is Mr. Thoyne’s house, you know. Thoyne engaged him the day after the inquest and he went at once. And now he has gone altogether.”

“Engaged him as what?”

“Same as Clevedon—valet, and so on.”

“How do you know?”

“I put someone on to watch him of course. I wasn’t going to let him slip away. But he has managed it, at least so my man reports and he must be a damned fool, as I told him. He hasn’t been seen for two days.”

“Your man hasn’t?”

“No, I mean Tulmin.”

“Thoyne should know where he is.”

“He says he doesn’t but I haven’t seen him myself. I am going up to Lennsdale now to question him. Would you care to come?”

At first I thought not, and then I altered my mind. After all, Thoyne really was right in the thick of it.

When we reached Thoyne’s house Pepster took the lead and rang lustily at the bell, which was one of the old-fashioned type with a long, hanging handle of cast-iron. He had to ring three times before he obtained any response and then the door was slowly opened to disclose a very old, white-headed man standing blinking at us with watery eyes. To Pepster’s question as to whether Mr. Thoyne was at home he only shook his head, but whether in negative reply or merely in stupidity we could not quite make out. The old man’s face at all events was devoid of expression.

“Do you mean he is not at home?” I demanded sharply.

“We will see for ourselves,” Pepster said, pushing past the old man into the hall. “Now, then, who else is in the house, and be careful what you say or we may be taking you with us.”

Pepster was very angry that Tulmin had slipped through his fingers and apparently regarded the old man as an ally of the enemy.

“Taking me with you!” the old fellow cried, in the quavering accents of age. “Taking me where?”

“To prison, old chap,” Pepster replied cheerfully. “People who won’t answer questions often find themselves in gaol.”

It was pure bluff and Pepster’s superiors would probably have had something rather drastic to say had they overheard it. But the detective knew pretty well how far to go, and with whom it was safe to go even that distance.

“But, dear sir, I have done nothing wrong,” the old man said, manifesting a sudden fluency which caused Pepster to turn on him with a sharp glance. “I am a very old man, gentlemen, seventy-seven, and I have never been in any trouble of that sort, never, gentlemen.”

“You are making for it now,” Pepster rejoined dryly.

“But, gentlemen, I—”

“Look here,” Pepster said, “we asked you a question—where’s Thoyne? If you mean to answer that, get going, and quick. If you don’t mean to answer it, don’t talk at all.”

“But, sir, I—”

“Where’s Mr. Thoyne?”

“But, gentlemen, if you would—”

“Where’s Mr. Thoyne?”

“He—I don’t know.”

“Is he in the house?”

“I don’t know.”