CHAPTER XIII

The girl who entered the room a moment later was tall and graceful, with

a yearning expression in her soft dark eyes, as though in search of a

happiness which had been denied her by Fate. Her appearance was one of

unusual refinement. She had not a trace of the coarsened blowzy look so

common in English country girls; there was nothing of rustic lumpishness

in her slim figure, and there was more than mere prettiness in her

exquisite small features, her thick dark hair, her clear white skin with

a tracery of blue veins in the temples. Her high-bridged nose and firm

chin suggested some force of character, but that suggestion was

counteracted by her wistful tender mouth, with drooping underlip. The

face, on the whole, was a paradoxical one, containing elements of

strength and weakness, and the eyes were the index to a strange

passionate nature.

She advanced into the room quietly, with a swift glance, immediately

veiled by drooped lids, at the faces of the police officials who were

awaiting her. When she reached the far end of the table at which they

were seated she stopped and stood with her hands clasped loosely in

front of her, as though waiting to be questioned.

"Please sit down, Miss Rath," said Captain Stanhill politely. "We wish

to ask you a few questions."

The girl seated herself in a chair some distance away from her mother,

and this time she surveyed the men before her with an air of

indifference which was obviously simulated.

But again she quickly dropped her eyes, for Merrington was staring at

her with a look of amazement, as though confronted with a familiar

presence whose identity he could not recall. He glanced from Hazel to

her mother, and his eyes fastened themselves fiercely on the housekeeper

with the satisfaction of a man who had solved an elusive puzzle.

"So we _have_ met before, Mrs. Rath," he said. "You are--"

"No, no! Please keep silent in front of my daughter," broke in the

housekeeper hurriedly.

"I was not mistaken. I remembered this woman's face this morning, but I

could not then recall where I had seen her before," pursued Merrington,

turning to Captain Stanhill and speaking with a sort of reflective

cruelty. "Her daughter's face supplies the clue. She is the image of her

mother as I remember her when she stood her trial at Old Bailey fifteen

years ago. She was tried for--"

"I beg of you not to say it!" Mrs. Rath started from her seat, and

looked wildly around as though seeking some avenue of escape from a

threatened disaster.

"Is it necessary to go into this, Merrington?" asked Captain Stanhill in

his mild tones, glancing from the excited woman to his colleague with

the troubled consciousness that he was assisting in a scene which was

distasteful to him.

"Of course it is necessary if we want to get at the truth of this case,"

retorted Merrington. "You needn't be concerned on Mrs. Rath's account,"

he went on, with a kind of savage, disdainful irony. "A woman who has

been tried as an accessory to murder is not likely to be squeamish. Her

name is not Rath. It is Theberton--Mary Theberton. She and her husband

were tried at Old Bailey fifteen years ago for the murder of a man named

Bridges. The trial made a great stir at the time. It was known as 'The

Death Signal Case'."

Caldew looked at the housekeeper with a new interest. He readily

recalled the notorious case mentioned by Merrington. Theberton was an

Essex miller, who, having discovered that his young wife was in the

habit of signalling his absence to Bridges by means of a candle placed

in her window, had compelled her to entice him to the cottage by the

signal, and was then supposed to have murdered him by throwing him into

the mill dam. But though Bridges was seen entering the cottage and was

not seen afterwards, the charge of murder failed because the detectives

were unable to find his body. Theberton protested his innocence; Mary

Theberton said her husband locked her in her room before admitting

Bridges, and she knew nothing of what took place between the two men.

There was much popular sympathy with her during the trial as the belief

gained ground that the relations between her and Bridges were innocent,

though indiscreet; the outcome of a craving for sympathy which had led

an unhappy young wife to confide her troubles to a former schoolfellow.

She was the daughter of an architect, and had been reared in refinement

and educated well, but she had been disowned by her father for marrying

beneath her. Her husband ill-used her, and her story was that she had

sought the assistance of an old schoolfellow in order to go to London to

earn a living for herself and her little daughter. When the trial was

over Theberton emigrated, and his wife disappeared, although there was

some talk of putting on foot a public subscription for her. This was the

end of "The Death Signal Case," for the mystery of the disappearance of

Bridges was never solved.

Caldew wondered by what strange turn of Fortune's wheel the woman before

him had come to be housekeeper at the moat-house. It was certain that

Miss Heredith knew nothing of the black page in her past, because Miss

Heredith, in spite of her kind heart and rigid church principles, was

the last person to appoint anybody with a tainted name to a position of

trust in her household. She was too proud of the family name to do such

a thing. The fact that the housekeeper had held the post so long without

discovery was proof of the ease with which identity could be safely

concealed from everything except chance. Although her nervous demeanour

suggested that she had been walking on a razor edge of perpetual

suspense in her quiet haven, ever dreading detection, it seemed to

Caldew that she might have gone undiscovered to her grave but for a

trick of Fate in selecting Superintendent Merrington to investigate the

moat-house murder. Fate, after its cruel fashion, had left her on her

razor edge for quite a long while before toppling her over, and Caldew

reflected that he had been made the instrument of her fall.

But what lay beyond the exposure of the housekeeper's identity? Why had

she deceived Merrington about her daughter's presence in the house? Was

it only the fear that Merrington would recognize her in her early

likeness to her daughter, or were her falsehoods intended to deceive the

detectives about Hazel's movements at the time of the murder? What would

the girl say? The situation was full of strange possibilities.

While these reflections were passing through Caldew's head there was

silence in the room, broken only by the clock on the mantelpiece ticking

loudly, with pert indifference to human affairs. Merrington, after

dragging the hidden and forgotten tragedy to light, remained quiet,

watchfully noting the effect on mother and daughter. The mother stood

without a word or gesture, her hand stiffened in arrested protest, like

a woman frozen into silence. The girl's look was directed towards her

mother with the fixity of gaze of a sleeper awakened in the horror of a

bad dream. At least in their stillness they were both in accord. Then

Hazel glanced wonderingly at the faces of the others in the room, with

the fatigued indifference of a returning consciousness seeking to regain

its bearings. This phase passed, and in the sudden wild burst of tears

which followed was the belated realization of the meaning of her

mother's exposure; the shame, the agony, the disgrace which it implied.

With a quick movement she rose from her seat, walked across to her

mother, and caught hold of her hand.

"Mother!" she said.

But her mother turned away from her, and, sinking in her chair, covered

her face in her hands with a shamed gesture, like a woman cast forth

naked in the light of day.

"Never mind your mother just now," said Merrington, as the girl bent

over as though to sooth her. "Please return to your seat and answer my

questions."

Hazel turned round at the sound of his voice, but stood where she was,

regarding him anxiously.

"You stayed here last night with your mother, I understand?" Merrington

continued.

"Yes."

"When did you arrive here?"

"Yesterday afternoon."

"Where from?"

"From Stading, by train. I had an afternoon off, and I came to see my

mother."

"How long is it since you visited her previously?"

"It must be about three months," said Hazel, after a short reflection.

"Do you always allow three months to elapse between your visits?"

"No." There was a trace of hesitation in the response.

"You used to come oftener?"

"Yes."

"How often?"

"Nearly every week." This time the hesitation before the reply was

plainly apparent.

"Why did you allow so long a time to elapse between this visit and the

last one when you had previously been in the habit of seeing your mother

nearly every week?"

Hazel again hesitated, as though at a loss for a reply.

"I have been so busy," she murmured at length.

"Is this your first visit to the moat-house since Mrs. Heredith came

here to live?"

"Yes." The response was so low as to be almost inaudible.

Caldew, who was the only person in the room with the deeper knowledge to

divine the drift of these questions, realized with something of a shock

that Merrington, with fewer facts to guide him, had reached his absolute

conclusion about the events of the last half-hour while he had wandered

perplexedly in a cloud of suspicions. The mental jump had been too great

for him, but Merrington had not hesitated to take it. Caldew waited

eagerly for the next question. It was some time in coming, and when it

did come it was not what Caldew expected. As though satisfied with the

previous answers he had received, Merrington branched off on another

track.

"How did you spend last night?" he asked abruptly.

"I do not understand you." There was the shadow of fear in the girl's

dark eyes as she answered.

"I will put it more plainly then. How did you occupy the time between

your arrival at the moat-house and bedtime?"

"I spent it with my mother in her rooms."

"Were you there all the time?"

It seemed to Caldew that the elder woman's attitude was that of a

listener. Though she still kept her face buried in her hands, her frame

slightly moved, as though she were listening to catch the reply.

"Yes." The word was spoken hurriedly, almost defiantly, but the girl's

eyes wavered and fell under Merrington's direct glance.

"May I take it, then, that you were in your mother's room at the time

Mrs. Heredith was murdered?"

This time Hazel did not reply audibly, but a faint movement of her head

indicated an affirmative.

"What would you say if your mother admits that you left her room before

the murder was committed, and that she did not see you until

afterwards?"

It was a clever trap, Caldew reluctantly conceded, this idea of playing

off the mother and daughter against each other, but one that he would

have hesitated to use. The effect was instantaneous. Before the girl

could frame her frightened lips in reply, her mother lifted her head

sharply.

"I didn't say so! Don't answer him, Hazel, don't tell him. Oh!" Too late

the wretched woman realized that she had betrayed her daughter, and she

sank into a stupefied silence.

"Your mother has let the cat out of the bag," said Merrington to the

girl, in a bantering tone. "Come, now," he added, changing swiftly into

his most truculent mood. "We may as well have the truth, first as last.

You were seen last night going up the hall in the direction of the left

wing just before the murder was committed. Do you admit it?"

"I do." The admission was made in a low but calm tone.

"Then your last answer was untrue. What were you doing in the hall at

that time?"

Hazel, staring straight in front of her, did not reply, but her quickly

moving breast betrayed her agitation.

"Did you hear me? I asked what were you doing in the hall last night."

"I shall not tell you."

"Did you go upstairs?"

"I shall not tell you."

These replies were given with a firm readiness which was in striking

contrast to her previous hesitation. She was like a person who had been

forced on to a dangerous path she feared to tread, and had summoned

fortitude to walk it bravely to the end.

"Of course you realize the position in which you place yourself by your

silence?" The quiet gravity with which Merrington put this question was,

similarly, in the strangest contrast to his former hectoring style. "It

is my duty to warn you that you are placing yourself in a grave

situation. Once more, will you answer my questions?"

"I will not." The answer was accompanied by a gesture which contained

something of the carelessness of despair.

"Then you must abide the consequences." He turned to Captain Stanhill

and Caldew. "It will be necessary to search the housekeeper's rooms.

Lumbe, you remain here and take charge of these two women. Do not allow

either of them to leave the room on any pretext. You had better keep the

door locked until we return."

He strode out of the room followed by Captain Stanhill and Caldew, to

the manifest trepidation of two maidservants outside, who had plainly no

business there. It was apparent that Milly Saker had been talking, and

that strange rumours were agitating the moat-house underworld.

"Where are the housekeeper's rooms?" said Merrington, abruptly accosting

one of the fluttered girls. "Come now, don't stand gaping at me like a

fool, but take us there directly."

The terrified girl went quickly ahead along a corridor leading from the

main hall. Turning down a narrower passage near the end she paused

outside a closed door and said:

"This is the housekeeper's room, sir."

"Stop a minute," said Merrington. "Does the housekeeper occupy only one

room?"

"No, sir, there are two. A sitting-room, with a bedroom opening off it."

"She has no other room in any other part of the house?"

"Oh, no, sir."

"That will do. You may go."

The maid needed no second bidding, but scuttled back towards the

corridor like a scared hen making for cover. Merrington flung open the

door in front of him and entered.

The room was well and simply furnished in the style of the house, but

the personal belongings and the bindings of some books suggested a mind

not out of harmony with the refinement of its surroundings. Merrington,

with a swift and comprehensive glance around him, began to upset the

neat arrangement and feminine order of the apartment with a thorough and

systematic search.

Caldew watched him for a moment, and then walked across to the door of

the inner room and entered it. The bedroom was large and airy, and the

appointments struck the note of dainty simplicity. Caldew was quick to

notice a girl's hat, with a veil attached, cast carelessly on the

toilet-table.

He made a circuit round the bed and approached the table to look at the

hat. A tight knot and a slight tear in the gossamer indicated that it

had been discarded very hastily, and Caldew wondered whether Hazel had

it on, waiting for an opportunity to slip away from the moat-house, when

he had knocked at the door to summon her to the library.

As he put the hat down his eye fell on a pincushion by the mirror, and

he gave a start of surprise. In the midst of hatpins at various angles

he saw the little brooch which had disappeared from the death-chamber.

The stone with the greenish reflection shone clearly against the blue

and gold shot-silk of the pincushion; the portion of the clasp which was

visible revealed the beginning of the scratched inscription of "Semper

Fidelis." The absence of any attempt to conceal the brooch was proof

that its owner was under the delusion that nobody had seen it lying in

the death-chamber. Caldew felt a thrill of professional vanity at the

success of his ruse.

His own name uttered in a peremptory shout from the next room caused him

to pick up the brooch and hasten thither. The first sight that met his

eye was the flushed triumphant face of Merrington bending over some

articles on the table. Caldew's view of the objects was obscured by

Captain Stanhill, who was also examining them, but he guessed by the

attitude of both men that a valuable find had been made. He advanced

eagerly to the table and saw, lying between them, a small revolver and a

handkerchief. The white cambric of the handkerchief was stained crimson

with blood.

The room was in great disorder. Superintendent Merrington, in the

impetuosity of his search, had reduced the previous order to chaos in

the course of a few minutes. Drawers had been opened and their contents

strewn about the floor, rugs and cushions had been flung into a corner

of the room, and the doors of a cabinet had been forced. Even the

pictures on the wall had been disarranged, and some of the chairs were

knocked over.

"Where did you find these things?" asked Caldew, picking up the revolver

and examining it.

"In that gimcrack thing over there." Merrington pointed to a slight,

elegant writing-table standing in a corner of the room. "Isn't it a

typical female hiding-place? About as safe as burying your head in the

sand. The drawer had been locked and the key taken away, but it was

quite easy to open. The lock is a trumpery kind of thing, with the bolt

shooting into the soft wood."

"I see that the revolver is still loaded in five chambers," said Caldew,

as he put down the weapon.

"Yes, and the sixth has been recently discharged. We don't require much

clearer evidence than that. And look at this handkerchief. The blood on

it is hardly dry yet."

Caldew took the handkerchief in his hand. As Merrington remarked, the

blood on it was hardly dry. It was a small linen square, destitute of

feminine adornment except for a dainty "H R" worked in silk in one

corner. The letters were barely visible in the blood with which the

whole handkerchief was saturated.

"I wonder how she got the blood on the handkerchief?" said Caldew. "Did

she try to stop the bleeding after shooting Mrs. Heredith?"

"It would be just like a woman to do so," grunted Merrington. "Women are

fond of crying over spilt milk--especially when they have spilt it

themselves. However, that's neither here nor there. The point is that

this is the girl's handkerchief, and this is the revolver with which she

shot Mrs. Heredith."

"But what was her motive for committing such an atrocious crime?" asked

Captain Stanhill in bewilderment.

"Jealousy," responded Merrington promptly. "I saw the possibility of

that motive as soon as I heard Milly Saker's story, and learnt that

Hazel Rath had lived for some years in the moat-house. Young Heredith

and she must have been thrown together a lot before the war, and there

was doubtless a flirtation between them which probably developed into an

intrigue. There are all the materials at hand for it--a well-born idle

young man, a girl educated above her station, a lonely country-house,

and plenty of opportunity. I know the type of girl well. These

half-educated protegees of great ladies grow up with all the whims and

caprices of fine females, and their silly little heads are easily

turned. Probably this girl imagined that young Heredith was so

captivated by her pretty face that he would marry her. When she learnt

that she had been dropped for somebody else she brooded in secret until

her unbalanced nature led her to commit this terrible crime. Moreover,

she is the daughter of a woman with a queer past, who has been living

under an assumed name for the past fifteen years."

"Do you think mother and daughter have acted in collusion in this

murder?" Caldew asked.

"That is a question I would not care to answer offhand," responded

Merrington thoughtfully. "Undoubtedly the mother shielded the daughter

and lied to save her, and she obviously knew that the girl was absent

from her room at the time the murder was committed. How far this implies

guilty knowledge, or the acts of an accomplice, we are not yet in a

position to say. We will arrest the daughter, and detain the mother--for

the present, at all events. Whether we charge the mother as well as the

daughter will depend on our subsequent investigations. It will be no

novelty for the mother to be charged as accessory in a murder case,"

concluded Merrington, with a grim smile.

"We have no direct evidence that the girl went upstairs last night,"

said Caldew, with a reflective air. "Milly Saker did not see her going

upstairs, and apparently nobody saw her coming away."

"No direct evidence, it is true. But the presumptive evidence is so

strong that it is hardly needed. In the first place, Milly Saker saw her

going down the hall in the direction of the left wing just before the

murder was committed. Next day--this morning--the housekeeper sent Milly

Saker out of the way before she could be questioned by the police. That

act suggests two inferences. First, Mrs. Rath, as she calls herself, had

some inkling that Milly Saker saw her daughter in the hall on the

previous night, and secondly, that Mrs. Rath feared, in the light of

subsequent events, to let it be known that her daughter was seen walking

down the hall before the murder was committed. From these inferences we

may conclude that, even if the mother had no actual knowledge of the

crime, she believed that her daughter was guilty. Her subsequent actions

to-day confirm that theory in every respect. And, of course, the

recovery of this revolver and the girl's handkerchief in her mother's

rooms, where she slept last night, is the strongest possible proof that

the girl shot Mrs. Heredith."

"Of course there can be no doubt of that. It would be impossible to find

a stronger case of circumstantial evidence," said Caldew earnestly. "But

here is a piece of direct evidence. Look here!" He produced the little

brooch from his pocket and placed it on the table beside the revolver

and the handkerchief. "This is the brooch I told you about. It is the

brooch I saw in Mrs. Heredith's room which disappeared while I was

downstairs. I found it stuck in a pincushion in the next room, beside

the girl's hat. She must have realized that she dropped it in the

murdered woman's bedroom, and seized the opportunity to return for it

while I was out of the room. That is a piece of direct evidence that she

was in Mrs. Heredith's bedroom."

"So you were right about the brooch. I owe you an apology for that,

Caldew," said Merrington. He placed the little trinket in his big hand,

and turned it over with his finger. The inscription on the back caught

his eye, and he held it closer to read it. "Semper Fidelis!" he

exclaimed. "The words are typical of the girl. The wishy-washy sentiment

would appeal to her, and she's of that partly educated type which thinks

a Latin tag imposing. I wonder who gave it to her? Oh, I have it! It was

probably a gift from young Heredith, and she added the inscription on

her own account so as to enhance the value of the gift and keep her

'Faithful Always.'"

Once more Caldew reluctantly admitted to himself that Merrington's

deductions were more swift and vigorous than his own, but he was

secretly annoyed to think that the other had gained partly by guesswork

the solution of a clue which had caused him so much thought and

perplexity.

"The brooch is no more direct evidence than the revolver and

handkerchief," continued Merrington. "The girl, unless she is a born

fool, is not likely to admit ownership of any one of them. She would be

putting the rope round her own neck to do so."

"I realize that," replied Caldew. "But I think that she might be trapped

into giving away that she owns the brooch. Women are very impulsive

where the loss of ornaments is concerned, and then their actions are

instinctive. I have frequently noticed it."

"And how do you propose to find out?" asked Merrington.

"By asking her."

"You'll get nothing out of this girl for the asking," replied

Merrington. "She runs deeper than that, or I am very much mistaken.

However, ask your own questions, by all means, after I have questioned

her about the revolver and the handkerchief. Let us get back to the

library."

They returned to the library. Sergeant Lumbe opened the door in response

to their knock, his face furrowed with the responsibilities of office.

Mother and daughter were sitting where they had left them, but the elder

woman had regained some measure of composure, and was staring drearily

in front of her. She did not look at the police officials as they

entered, but Hazel glanced towards them, and her eyes fell on the

revolver and handkerchief which Merrington carried in his hand. It

seemed to Caldew that her face remained unmoved. Merrington walked over

to her.

"You must consider yourself under arrest on a charge of murdering Mrs.

Heredith," he said, in quiet, almost conversational tones. "This

revolver and this handkerchief were found in your mother's sitting-room.

If you have any explanation to make you may do so, but it is my duty to

warn you that any statement you make now may be used in evidence against

you later on."

"I have nothing to say," replied the girl simply.

"You decline to say how this revolver came into your possession, or make

any explanation about the bloodstains on this handkerchief?"

"Yes."

"Do you also refuse to tell us what you have done with the brooch you

were wearing last night?" added Caldew.

The girl, with an impulsive instinctive gesture, hastily put her hand to

the neck of her blouse, then, realizing that she had unconsciously

betrayed herself, she let it fall slowly to her side.