CHAPTER VII

It was the morning after the murder, and five men were seated in the

moat-house library. One of them attracted instant attention by reason of

his overpowering personality. He was a giant in stature and build, with

a massive head, a large red face from which a pair of little bloodshot

eyes stared out truculently, and a bull neck which was several shades

deeper in colour than his face. He was Superintendent Merrington, a

noted executive officer of New Scotland Yard, whose handling of the most

important spy case tried in London during the war had brought forth from

a gracious sovereign the inevitable Order of the British Empire.

Merrington was known as a detective in every capital in Europe, and

because of his wide knowledge of European criminals had more than once

acted as the bodyguard of Royalty on continental tours, and had received

from Royal hands the diamond pin which now adorned the spotted silk tie

encircling his fat purple neck.

The famous detective's outlook on life was cynical and coarse. The

cynicism was the natural outcome of his profession; the coarseness was

his heritage by birth, as his sensual mouth, blubber lips, thick nose,

and bull-neck attested. It was a strange freak of Fate which had made

him the guardian of the morals of society and the upholder of law and

order in a modern civilized community. By temperament and disposition he

belonged to the full-blooded type of humanity which found its best

exemplars in the early Muscovite Czars, and, if Fate had so willed it,

would have revelled in similar pursuits of vice, oppression, and

torture. As Fate had ironically made a police official of him, he had to

content himself with letting off the superfluous steam of his tremendous

temperament by oppressing the criminal classes, and he had performed

that duty so thoroughly that before he became the travelling companion

of kings his name had been a terror to the underworld of London, who

feared and detested his ferocity, his unscrupulous methods of dealing

with them, and his wide knowledge of their class.

He was a recognized hero of the British public, which on one occasion

had presented him with a testimonial for his capture of a desperado who

had been terrorizing the East End of London. But Merrington disdained

such tokens of popular approval. He regarded the public, which he was

paid to protect, as a pack of fools. For him, there were only two

classes of humanity--fools and rogues. The respectable portion of the

population constituted the former, and criminals the latter. He had the

lowest possible opinion of humanity as a whole, and his favourite

expression, in professional conversation, was: "human nature being what

it is...." He was still a mighty force in Scotland Yard, although he had

passed his usefulness and reached the ornamental stage of his career,

rarely condescending to investigate a case personally.

His present visit to the moat-house was one of those rare occasions, and

was due to the action of Captain Stanhill, the Chief Constable of

Sussex, who was seated near him. Captain Stanhill was a short stout man,

with a round, fresh-coloured face, and short sturdy legs and arms. He

wore a tweed coat of the kind known to tailors as "a sporting lounge,"

and his little legs were encased in knickerbockers and leather gaiters,

which were spattered with mud, as though he had ridden some distance

that morning. He was a very different type from Superintendent

Merrington--a gentleman by birth and education, a churchman, and a

county magnate. He never did anything so dangerous as to think, but

accepted the traditions and rules of his race and class as his safe

guide through life. Like most Englishmen of his station of life, he was

endowed with just sufficient intelligence to permit him to slide along

his little groove of life with some measure of satisfaction to himself

and pleasure to his neighbours. He was a sound judge of cattle and

horses, but of human nature he knew nothing whatever, and his first act,

on being informed of the murder at the moat-house, was to ring up

Scotland Yard and request it to send down one of its most trusted

officials to investigate the circumstances. In reply to this call for

assistance, Superintendent Merrington, not unmindful of the county

standing and influence of the Herediths, had decided to investigate the

case himself, and had brought with him two satellites--a finger-print

expert who was at that moment paring his own finger-nails with a

pocket-knife as he stared vacantly out of the library window, and an

official photographer, who was upstairs taking photographs in the death

chamber.

Seated near the finger-print expert was a police official of middle-age,

Inspector Weyling, of the Sussex County Police. He was a saturnine sort

of man, with a hooked nose, a skin like parchment, and a perfectly bald

sugar-loaf head, surmounted at the top by a wen as large as a duck-egg.

His deferential attitude and obsequious tone whenever Superintendent

Merrington chose to address a remark to him indicated that he had a

proper official respect for the rank and standing of that gentleman.

Inspector Weyling was merely a police official. He had no personal

characteristics whatever, unless a hobby for breeding Belgian rabbits,

and a profound belief that Mr. Lloyd George was the greatest statesman

the world had ever seen, could be said to constitute a temperament.

The fifth man was Detective Caldew, who had just completed a narrative

of the events of the previous night for the benefit of his colleagues,

but more especially for Superintendent Merrington, in whose hands lay

the power of directing the investigations of the crime. It was by no

wish of Detective Caldew that Superintendent Merrington had been brought

into the case. Caldew thought when the county inspector arrived and

found a Scotland Yard man at work he would be only too glad to allow him

to go on with the case, and he anticipated no difficulty in obtaining

the consent of his official superiors at Scotland Yard to continuing the

investigations he had commenced. But Inspector Weyling, when notified of

the crime by Sergeant Lumbe, had telephoned to the Chief Constable for

instructions. The latter, distrustful of the ability of the county

police to bring such an atrocious murderer to Justice, had begged the

help of Scotland Yard, with the result that Superintendent Merrington

and his assistants appeared at the moat-house in the early morning

before the astonished eyes of Caldew, who was taking a walk in the

moat-house garden after a night of fruitless investigations.

In the arrival of Merrington, Caldew saw all his fine hopes of promotion

dashed to the ground. He was by no means confident that Merrington would

permit him to take any further share in the investigations, but he was

quite certain that if he did, and the murderer was captured through

their joint efforts, very little of the credit would fall to his share

when such a famous detective as Merrington was connected with the case.

Merrington would see to that.

Caldew, in his narration of the facts of the murder, laid emphasis on

the mysterious nature of the crime, in the hope that Merrington might

deem it wiser to return to London and leave him in charge of the case,

rather than risk a failure which would greatly damage his own

reputation. Merrington listened to him gloomily. He fully realized the

difficult task ahead of the police, and his temper was not improved in

consequence.

"Apparently the murderer has got clean away without leaving a trace

behind him?" he said.

"Yes."

"No sign of any weapon?"

"No."

"Anything taken?"

"No. Miss Heredith says nothing was taken from the room, and nothing is

missing from the house."

"The motive was not robbery then," remarked Captain Stanhill.

"It may have been," responded Merrington. "Caldew says the first

intimation of the crime was the murdered woman screaming. The scream was

followed in a few seconds by the revolver shot. If she screamed when she

saw the murderer enter her room, he may well have feared interruption

and capture, and bolted without stealing anything."

"Why did he murder her, then, in that case?" asked Captain Stanhill.

"To prevent subsequent identification. Many burglars proceed to murder

for that reason. I know plenty of old hands who would commit half a

dozen murders rather than face the prospect of five years' imprisonment.

I do not say that burglary was the motive in this case, but we must not

lose sight of the possibility."

"It seems a strange case," murmured Inspector Weyling absently. He was

thinking, as he spoke, of his rabbits, and wondering whether his wife

would remember to give the lop-eared doe with the litter a little milk

in the course of the morning.

"It's a very sad case," said Captain Stanhill. "Poor young thing!" The

Chief Constable was a human being before he was a police official, and

his face showed plainly that he was stricken with horror by the story of

the crime.

"It's a damned remarkable case," exclaimed Merrington, in his booming

voice. "I do not remember its parallel. An English lady is murdered in

her home, with a crowd of people sitting at dinner in the room

underneath, and the murderer gets clean away, without leaving a trace.

No weapon, no finger-prints or footprints, and no clue of any kind."

Caldew had been hoping to get an opportunity of telling Merrington

privately about the missing trinket, but he realized that he was not

doing his duty by delaying the explanation.

"There was something which might have helped us as a clue," he said.

"Last night, while I was examining Mrs. Heredith's bedroom, I saw a

small trinket lying on the floor near the bedside."

"What sort of a trinket?" asked Merrington.

"A small bar brooch."

"Where is it?"

"I do not know," replied Caldew awkwardly. "I left it where I saw it,

hidden in the carpet, thinking it possible that the person who had lost

it might return in search of it, but while I was downstairs it

disappeared."

"It is rather strange," said Merrington thoughtfully. "I am not inclined

to think there is anything in it to help us," he added, after a moment's

consideration. "Still, I will look into it later. Why did you leave the

trinket in the room, Caldew?"

"I thought it possible that if the owner had anything to do with the

crime he--or she--might return for it," said Caldew. "So I left it where

I found it, and watched the room from the end of the passage."

"A murderer doesn't go about wearing a cheap trinket, and, if he did, he

wouldn't risk his neck coming back to look for it. The brooch was more

likely dropped by one of the maidservants, who picked it up again."

"Would a girl go into a room where there was a dead body?"

"A country wench would. English countrywomen have pretty strong nerves.

You ought to know that. But why did you leave the room if you expected

the owner of the trinket to return in search of it?"

"I was called downstairs to see Mr. Musard. An unused outside door which

is generally kept locked was discovered unlocked by the butler before

the murder was committed. As the door opens on a staircase leading to

the left wing, Mr. Musard thought the butler's discovery had some

bearing on the crime."

"He thought the murderer may have entered the house that way? Such a

theory would suggest that one of the servants is implicated."

"Yes; but I do not agree with Mr. Musard."

"What is your own opinion?"

"I think the key must have been left in the door by one of the

servants--perhaps some days ago. The fact that the butler locked the

door when he found it unfastened did not prevent the murder being

committed, or the murderer escaping afterwards."

"The murderer may have entered by the door before the butler discovered

that it had been unlocked, and then concealed himself inside the house

awaiting an opportunity to commit the crime."

"In that case, he would have tried to escape the same way, but it is

quite certain that he did not do so. Mr. Musard says that the staircase

was the first place to be searched when the guests rushed upstairs. If

the murderer had gone that way he would have found the door at the

bottom locked, and the key removed, and he must have been caught before

he could get back upstairs."

"There's something in that," said Merrington. "But how do you account

for the door being unlocked in the first instance?"

"The servants know where the key is kept. One of the maids may have

taken it to steal out of the house that way to keep an appointment with

a sweetheart, and forgotten all about it when she returned. The back

staircase and entrance are never used by the members of the household,

and the key, which was inside the door, may have been there for days

without being noticed. Tufnell admits that it was only by chance he

tried the door yesterday. He had not tried it for weeks before."

"I'll have a look at this door later. And now, we had better get to

work. We have got to catch this murderer pretty quickly, or the press

and the public will be up in arms. He's had too long a start already.

You must make up your mind for considerable public indignation about

that, Caldew."

"I do not see how I can be held responsible for the murderer getting

away," said Caldew, in an aggrieved tone. "He had his start before I

arrived. I did everything that I could. I searched the house inside and

out, and Sergeant Lumbe has been scouring the country-side since

daybreak looking for suspicious characters."

"I am not blaming you, Caldew," responded Merrington, but his voice

suggested the reverse of his words. "I am merely pointing out to you the

way the British public will look at it. They will say, 'Here is a young

wife murdered in the bosom of her home and family, and the murderer gets

right away. What do we pay the detective force for? To let murderers

escape?' Mark my words, if we don't lay our hands on this chap quickly,

we'll have the whole of the London press howling at our heels like a

pack of wolves. Half a dozen special reporters travelled down in the

train with me and pestered me with questions all the way. They are

coming along here later for a statement for the evening editions. But

never mind the journalists--let us get to work without further loss of

time. Have you made a list of all the guests who have been stopping in

the house?"

"Not yet. Here is a sketch plan of the moat-house interior and the

grounds which you may find useful."

"Thanks. You had better prepare a list of the guests before they leave.

They are sure to get away as fast as possible, and we may want to

interview some of them later on. Now we had better have a look at the

body."

They went upstairs to the bedroom. There they found a young man, with a

freckled face and a snub nose, packing up a photographic apparatus. He

was the photographer, and he had been taking photographs of the dead

body.

"Finished?" inquired Merrington. "That's right. Then you and Freeling

had better return to London by the next train--you'll be wanted in that

Putney case."

The photographer and the finger-print expert left the room together, and

Merrington walked across to the bed. He drew away the sheet which

covered the dead girl, and bent over the body, examining it closely, but

without touching it.

"The corpse has not been moved, I suppose?" he remarked to Caldew, who

was standing beside him.

"Not since I arrived. But she may not have been shot in that position.

She lived some minutes afterwards, and may have moved slightly--not

much, I should say, for there are no marks of bloodstains on any other

part of the bed."

Merrington nodded. He was looking at the bullet wound, which was plainly

visible through a burnt orifice in the rest-gown which the dead girl was

wearing. The wound was a circular punctured hole in the left breast,

less than the size of a sixpenny piece.

"The wound has been washed," he observed. "Was that done by the police

surgeon?"

"The police surgeon has not been here. The corpse was examined by the

village medical man, Dr. Holmes."

"I should like to see him. Where is he to be found?"

"He will be here in the course of the morning. He is attending young

Heredith, who is suffering from the shock. The doctor fears brain

fever."

"When he comes I want to see him. It is idle speculating about the cause

of death in the absence of a doctor. Death in this case appears to have

been due to haemorrhage. Apparently the murderer aimed at the heart and

missed it, and the shot went through the lungs. The shot was fired at

very close range too--look how the wrapper is burnt! Any sign of the

bullet, Caldew?"

"I found none."

"Well, we shall have to wait for the doctor to clear up these points."

His trained eyes swept round the bedroom, taking stock of every article

in it. He next carefully examined the door, and the lock on it.

"The door was open when the others came upstairs, you said, Caldew?"

"Yes--about half open."

"That accounts for the scream and the shot being heard so plainly

downstairs. It also suggests that the murderer fled very hurriedly,

leaving the door open behind him."

"It seems to me more likely that he escaped by the window, even if he

did not enter that way. Miss Heredith, who was the last inmate of the

household to see Mrs. Heredith alive, thinks that the window was closed

when she was in the room before dinner."

Merrington walked over to the window and examined it, testing the lock

and looking at the sill.

"Does Miss Heredith say that the window was locked, or merely closed,

when she was in the room?" he asked.

"She cannot say definitely. She thinks it was closed because the air was

heavy, and she knew that Mrs. Heredith disliked having her bedroom

window open."

Merrington shrugged his shoulders contemptuously.

"A woman's fancies are not much to build a theory upon," he said. "Have

you any other reason for thinking that the murderer may have escaped by

this window?"

"Yes. After the shot was fired the guests rushed upstairs immediately,

and the murderer would have run into them if he had attempted to escape

downstairs."

"Is there no other means of escape from the wing except by the

staircase?"

"There is the back staircase I told you of, at the end of the corridor.

That staircase is never used. The door is kept locked, and the key hangs

in a room downstairs. It was the door at the bottom of this staircase

which was found unlocked by the butler yesterday evening."

"I'll have a look at it, and then we'll go downstairs. I want to see

this bedroom window from outside."

They left the bedroom and proceeded to the end of the corridor, where

Caldew pointed out the door at the top of the staircase. Merrington

opened it, and went down the stairs. He reappeared after the lapse of a

few minutes with dusty hands and cobwebs on his clothes.

"The murderer didn't get in that way," he said. "On the face of it, it

seems a plausible theory to suggest that he entered by the locked door

and hid himself somewhere in this wing, and escaped after committing the

murder by jumping through the bedroom window. But it is impossible to

get over your point that if he had entered by the door he would have

tried to escape by the same means, not knowing that the door had been

locked in the meantime. To do that he must have traversed the corridor

twice and gone down and up these back stairs while the guests were

coming up the other stairs. He couldn't have done it in the time. He

would have been caught--cut off before he could get back. Look at this

steep flight of stairs and the length of the corridor! That disposes of

the incident of the door. Whoever unlocked it was not the murderer."

Merrington retraced his steps along the corridor. As he walked, his eyes

roved restlessly over the tapestry hangings and velvet curtains, and

took in the dark nooks and corners which abound in old English

country-houses.

"Plenty of places here where a man might hide," he muttered, in a

dissatisfied voice.

At the head of the front staircase he paused, and looked over the

balusters, as though calculating the distance to the hall beneath. Then

he descended the stairs.

It still wanted half an hour to breakfast time. There was no sign of

anybody stirring downstairs except a fresh-faced maidservant, who was

dusting the furniture in the great hall. She glanced nervously at the

groups of police officials, and then resumed her dusting. Merrington

strode across to her.

"What is your name, my dear?" he asked, in his great voice.

"Milly Saker, sir."

"Very well, Milly. I'll come and have a talk with you presently--just

our two selves."

The girl, far from looking delighted at this prospect, backed away with

a frightened face. Merrington strode on through the open front door, and

turned towards the left wing.

It was a crisp autumn morning. The early sunshine fell on the hectic

flush of decay in the foliage of the woods, but a thin wisp of vapour

still lingered across the moat-house garden and the quiet fields beyond.

Merrington kept on until he reached the large windows of the

dining-room, which opened on to the terraced garden.

"That's Mrs. Heredith's window," he said, pointing up to it. "Her

bedroom is directly over the dining-room. If the murderer escaped by the

window he must have dropped on to this gravel path."

"It is a pretty stiff drop," said Captain Stanhill, measuring the

distance with his eye.

"Oh, I don't know," replied Merrington. "He'd let himself down eight

feet with extended arms, and that would leave a drop of only ten feet or

thereabouts--not much for an athletic man. But if he dropped he must

have left footprints."

"There are none. I have looked," said Caldew.

The information did not deter Merrington from examining the path anew.

He got down on his hands and knees to scrutinize the gravel and the

grass plot more thoroughly.

"Nothing doing here either," he said as he scrambled to his feet. "There

are neither footprints nor marks such as one would expect to find if a

man had dropped out of the window. What are you looking at, Weyling?"

In reply Inspector Weyling made his first and only contribution towards

the elucidation of the crime.

"Could not the murderer have climbed up to the bedroom by that creeper?"

he asked, pointing to a thin trail of Virginia creeper which stretched

up the wall almost as high as the window.

Merrington tested the frail creeper with his great hand. His sharp tug

detached a mass of the plant from the brickwork.

"Not likely," he replied. "It might bear the weight of a boy or a

slender girl, but not of a man. What do you think, Caldew?"

Caldew nodded without speaking. Weyling's remark had started a train of

thought in his mind, but he had no intention of revealing it to a man

who plainly did not intend to confer with him on equal terms, or

disclose his own theory of the murder--if he had formed one.

"Let us get inside again," said Merrington, in his masterful way.

He turned back towards the house, and the others followed.