CHAPTER V

A shaded light in an alcove at the head of the stairs threw a dim light

down the passage which led off the first-floor landing, but Musard felt

for the electric switch and pressed it. The light flooded an empty

corridor, with the door of the room nearest to him gaping into a dark

interior.

Musard stepped inside the open door, struck a match to find the switch,

and walked over and turned on the light. As he did so, Phil and his

father reached the door and followed him into the room, where, less than

two hours before, Miss Heredith had been with Phil's young wife, and

left her to sleep. The room seemed as it had been then; there was no

sign of any intruder. The cut-glass and silver bottles stood on the

small table by the head of the bed; the gold cigarette case was open

alongside them; a novel, flung face downward on the pillows, revealed a

garish cover and the bold lettering of the title--"What Shall it

Profit?"--as though the book had dropped from the hand of some one

overcome by sleep. But the white rays of the electric globe, hanging in

a shade of rose colour directly overhead, fell with sinister

distinctness on the slender figure of the young wife, lying in a huddled

heap on the bed, her fashionable rest gown stained with blood, which

oozed from her breast in a sluggish stream on the satin quilt. A sharp,

pungent odour was mingled with the heavy atmosphere of the room--the

smell of a burning fabric. There was no disorder, no weapon, no

indication of a struggle. Only the motionless, bleeding figure on the

bed revealed to the guests clustering outside the room that somebody had

entered and departed as silently as a tiger.

Musard went swiftly to the bedside and bent over the girl.

"She has been shot," he said, in a tone which was little more than a

whisper.

"She has been murdered!" It was Phil, pressing close behind Musard, who

uttered these words. "Murdered!" he cried, in an unnatural voice, which

was dreadful to hear. He made a few steps in the direction of the bed

with his arms outstretched, then stopped, and, swinging round, faced the

guests who were thronging the corridor outside. "Murdered, I say!" he

repeated. "Where is the murderer?"

He stood for a moment, fixing a wild eye on the group of frightened

faces in the doorway, as though seeking the murderer among them. Then

his face became distorted, and he fell to the ground. His limbs seemed

to grow rigid as he lay; his legs were extended stiffly, the upper part

of his arms were pressed against his breast, but the forearms inclined

forward, with the palms of the hand thrown back, and the fingers wide

apart. Even in his unconsciousness he looked as though he were warding

off the horror of the sight which had stricken him to the ground.

In the presence of domestic calamity human nature betrays its inherent

weakness. At such times the artificial outer covering of civilization

falls away, and the soul stands forth, stark, primitive, forlorn, and

cries aloud. The strain of the tremendous tragedy which had entered his

house, swift-footed and silent, was too much for Sir Philip. He sank on

his knees by the side of his unconscious son, whimpering like a child--a

weak and helpless old man. There was no trace of the dignity of the

Herediths or pride of race in the wrinkled face, now distorted with the

pitiful grin of senility, as Sir Philip crouched over his son, stroking

his face with feeble fingers.

One or two of the women in the passage became hysterical. The young men

looked on awkwardly, with grave faces, not knowing what to do. There was

something very English in their shy aloofness; in their dislike of

intruding in the room unasked.

Musard, looking round from the bedside, glanced briefly at the prostrate

figure of Phil, and then his gleaming eyes travelled to the group at the

doorway. He, at all events, was calm, and master of himself.

"The ladies had better go downstairs," he said, speaking in a subdued

voice, but with decision. "They can do no good here. And will you

two"--he singled out two of the young men with his eye--"carry Phil

downstairs? He has only fainted. Please take Sir Philip away also.

Telephone for Dr. Holmes immediately, and send for Sergeant Lumbe. And

some of you young men search the house thoroughly--at once. No, not this

room. Search the house from top to bottom, and the grounds outside. Be

quick! There is no time to be lost."

The group in the doorway melted away. The ladies, pale-faced and

weeping, went downstairs together like a flock of frightened birds, and

the young men, only too glad to obey somebody who showed nerve and

resolution at such a moment, dispersed at once to search the house.

Musard was left in the room alone, but not for long. Miss Heredith

entered from the corridor almost immediately. Tufnell accompanied her to

the door, but stopped there, with staring eyes directed towards the bed.

Miss Heredith's face was drawn, but she had recovered her self-control.

She walked quickly towards Musard, who was still bending over the bed.

"Vincent!" she cried. "In pity's name tell me what dreadful thing has

happened? They have carried Phil downstairs, and they tried to detain

me, but I broke away from them and came straight to you. Is Violet----"

Musard sprang to his feet at the first sound of her voice, and wheeled

round swiftly, as if trying to impose his body between her and the

figure on the bed.

"Go back, Alethea!" he sternly commanded. "Go back, I say! This is no

sight for you, and you can do no good."

He still sought to intercept her as she approached, but she gently put

aside his detaining hand, and, walking to the bedside, looked down.

Then, at that sight, her fingers sought for his with an impulsive

feminine movement, and held them tight.

"Do not be afraid for me," she whispered. "See! I am calm--I may be able

to help. Is she--dead?"

"Dying," said Musard sadly.

"Is it...?" her voice dropped to nothingness, but her frightened eyes,

travelling fearfully into the shadowy corners of the big bedroom,

completed the unspoken sentence.

Musard understood her, and bowed his head silently. Then, turning his

face to the door, he beckoned Tufnell to approach. The old servant

advanced tremblingly into the room, vainly endeavouring to compose his

horror-stricken face into a semblance of the impassive mask of the

well-trained English servant.

"Go downstairs and get me some hot water," said Musard quietly. "Look

sharp--and bring it yourself. I do not want any maidservants here to go

into hysterics."

Tufnell hastened away. Musard resumed his place at the bedside, silently

watching the figure on the bed. There was blood on his hands and

clothes.

"Is there no hope? Can nothing be done to save her?" whispered Miss

Heredith.

"Nothing. The lung is penetrated. She is bleeding to death."

His quick eye noticed a change in the figure on the bed. The face

quivered ever so slightly, and the blue eyes half opened. Then the

stricken girl made an effort as though she wanted to sit up, but a

sudden convulsion seized her, and she fell back on her pillow, with one

little white hand, glittering with rings, flung above her head, as if

she died in the act of invoking the retribution of a God of justice on

the assassin who had blotted out her young life in agony and horror.

"She is dead," said Musard gently. "This is a terrible business, and our

first duty is to try and capture the monster who committed this foul

crime."

They stood there in silence for a moment, looking earnestly at one

another. Outside, somewhere in the woodland, there sounded the haunting

gush of a night-bird's song, shivering through the quietness like a

silver bell. The sweet note finished in a frightened squawk, and was

followed by the cry of an owl. The song had betrayed the singer.

Musard turned away from Miss Heredith, and walked restlessly around the

bedroom, scanning the heavy pieces of furniture and the faded hangings,

and peering into every nook and corner, as if seeking for the murderer's

place of concealment. A roomy old wardrobe near the window attracted his

eye, and he stopped in front of it and flung its doors open. It

contained some articles of the dead girl's apparel--costumes and

frocks--hanging on hooks.

His eye wandered to the window, shrouded in the heavy folds of the

damask curtains. He walked over to it, and drew the curtains aside. The

bottom half of the window was wide open.

Miss Heredith, who was following his movements closely, gave vent to a

faint cry of surprise.

"The window!" she exclaimed.

Musard looked round inquiringly.

"The window--what of it?" he asked.

"It was closed when I came in here before dinner to see Violet."

"You are quite sure of that?"

"Oh, yes! At least, I think so."

"I do not understand you."

"I mean that the atmosphere of the room was heavy and thick, as if the

window had not been opened all day."

"It has been a still, close day."

"But Violet never had a window open if she could help it. She disliked

fresh air. She was always afraid of catching cold."

Musard looked out of the window into the velvet darkness of the night.

"If the window was closed before, the murderer has opened it and escaped

through it," he said.

"It is hardly possible."

"Why not?" He turned round and faced her.

"The ground falls on that side. The window is nearly twenty feet from

the ground. And--there is the moat to be crossed. There is no bridge on

that side of the house, and this window opens on the garden. Don't you

remember?"

"I remember now."

"I thought you would."

"Still----" Musard broke off abruptly, and walked away from the window.

Near the window stood the dressing-table. The swing oval mirror

reflected its contents--ivory brushes, silver hand mirrors, all the

costly bijoutry of a refined woman's toilet. Among them stood Violet's

silver jewel-case. Musard strode over and examined the case. It was

locked.

"This ought to be put away," he said.

"I was coming up to get it when I heard the scream," whispered his

companion.

"Perhaps you will take charge of it now," he said, placing it in her

hands. As he did so there flashed across his mind the cynical

appropriateness of the old proverb about locking doors after stolen

steeds.

There was a restraint and lack of spontaneity about their conversation

of which both were acutely conscious. The note was forced, as though

from too great an effort to strike the right key. A curious

psychological change had swept over both since they stood together by

the bedside of the dying woman. It had come with the entry of death.

They conversed hurriedly and guardedly, as if they mistrusted each

other. In each of them two entities were now apparent--a surface

consciousness, which talked and acted mechanically, and a secondary

inner consciousness, watchful, and fearful of misinterpretation of the

spoken word. The faculties which make up the human mind are different

and complex, and mysteriously blended. It may be that when tragedy

upsets the frail structure of human life the brute instincts of

watchfulness and self-preservation come uppermost, guarding against

chance suspicion, or the loud word of accusation. Perhaps through

Musard's mind was passing the thought of the strange manner in which the

murder had been committed, and how he, by detaining everybody downstairs

at the dinner table while he told his story had been an instrument in

its accomplishment.

The situation was terminated by the arrival of Tufnell with some hot

water. Almost on his heels came the young men who had been searching the

house. Musard was relieved by their return, though his impassive face

did not reveal his feelings. Miss Heredith left the room with Tufnell,

taking the jewel-case with her. Musard met the young men at the

threshold.

The tall young officer with the sunburnt face, Major Gardner, informed

Musard that they had completed a search of the house from top to bottom,

but had found nothing. They had also searched the grounds, without

result.

"Mrs. Heredith is dead," Musard gravely informed them. "She died while

you have been searching for the miscreant who fired the shot we heard at

the dinner table. Gentlemen, he must be found. It seems hardly possible

that he has succeeded in getting clear away in so short a time."

"We have searched the place from top to bottom," remarked one of the

young men.

"It is a strange, rambling old place, and difficult to explore unless

you know it thoroughly," said Musard.

"We have done the best we could."

"I do not doubt it, but there are many old nooks and corners in which a

man might hide."

"His first thought, after such a dreadful crime, would be to get away as

quickly as possible," said Major Gardner.

"But how did he escape? Certainly not by the staircase, because we

rushed out from the dining-room directly we heard the shot, and we

should have caught him on his way down."

"Is there not a window in the bedroom? Could he not have escaped that

way?"

"The window is nearly twenty feet from the ground."

"An athletic man might jump that distance," remarked Major Gardner

thoughtfully.

"I still think it possible he may be concealed about the premises,"

replied Musard. "There is an old unused staircase at the end of this

passage, which opens on the south side of the moat-house. Did you find

it? It shuts with a door at the top, and might easily have escaped your

notice."

"I opened the door and went down the staircase," said the young flying

officer. "Nobody could have escaped that way. The door at the bottom is

locked, and there is no key."

The scared face of a maidservant at that moment appeared at the head of

the stairs.

"If you please, sir," she said, addressing Musard, "one of the gentlemen

downstairs sent me up to tell you that he has been trying for the last

ten minutes to ring up the police, but he can't get an answer."

"Send the butler to me at once."

The maid disappeared, and in another moment the butler came hurriedly up

the stairs.

"Tufnell," said Musard quickly, "you must go at once to the village and

get Sergeant Lumbe and Dr. Holmes. Hurry off, and be as quick as you

can. And now, gentlemen," he added, turning to the others, "let us go

downstairs. While we are waiting for the police I will help you make

another search of the house and grounds. The murderer may escape while

we stand here talking. We have wasted too much valuable time already."