The Hand in the Dark, Arthur J. Rees [learn to read activity book .TXT] 📗

so I gave in, and said I would do as she wished. I have since bitterly regretted that I did not go openly to London and back, even at the risk of a little idle curiosity.

"I announced my recall and departure next morning at the breakfast table, and returned to London by the afternoon train. I drove to Sherryman Street, got the necklace, and returned to Victoria just in time to catch the six o'clock express. I left the train at Weydene, and walked across the fields to the moat-house. It was quite dark when I reached there. I crossed the back bridge over the moat and went to the door in the left wing, as we had arranged. To my surprise it was locked.

"I waited outside the door expecting Violet to come down. Everything was silent, so I thought the others must have started for the dance. But the time went on, and nobody came. Then I decided to creep round the, side of the wing and see if there was a light in Violet's bedroom. At that moment I heard a loud scream from somewhere upstairs, followed by a deafening report.

"I had no idea what had happened, but I knew that I must not be found there, so I slipped back the way I had come. I ran along the outside of the moat wall, making for the wood in front of the house. As I passed Violet's window I looked up, and it was in darkness. I suppose that was why I did not connect the shot or the scream with her.

"I plunged through the woods till I came to the carriage drive. From there the front of the moat-house was visible to me. I could see lights flashing, and people moving hurriedly about. After I had stood there for some time I saw a man hurrying across the moat-house bridge in my direction, so I went back into the wood and hid behind a tree. The man stopped as he walked along the carriage drive, and looked towards the tree where I was crouching. He called out 'Who is there?' I recognized his voice. It was Tufnell, the butler. I thought I was discovered, and crept into some undergrowth, but in a moment he walked on.

"I remained hidden in the undergrowth for some time—an hour or more. Once I heard footsteps crunching on the gravel-path, then all was silent again. After waiting for some time longer I decided to walk back to Weydene and return to London. But I made such a wide detour for fear of being seen that I lost my way, and it was nearly midnight when I found myself at Rainchester, on the main line, just in time to catch the last train to London.

"It was a terrible shock to me when I opened my paper the next morning and read about poor Violet's murder. I had never thought of anything like that. At first I could think of nothing but her terrible end, but then it occurred to me that my own position would be awkward if the loss of the necklace was discovered. As the papers said nothing about the necklace I concluded that it had not been missed. But I knew the police would be searching for clues, and might discover the loss at any moment. I knew it was dangerous for me to keep it in my possession, so I decided to get rid of it without delay.

"I thought at first of returning it anonymously, but I immediately abandoned that idea as too dangerous. Then I thought of dropping it into the river. It occurred to me, however, that if by any chance the police discovered that the necklace had been given to me, and I couldn't produce it if I were questioned, I should be in a worse fix still. So I tried to think of a safe hiding-place where I could lay my hands on it in case of necessity. I could think of none. Time went on, and before I had decided what to do with the thing my man came along and said it was time to catch the boat train. So in the end I put the necklace into my pocket and took it to France with me. It seemed as safe there as anywhere else for the time being.

"I was only going to the base, so I saw the London papers every day. I was very relieved when I read of the arrest of Hazel Rath for the murder. I returned to London feeling reasonably safe, though it seemed strange to me that the loss of the necklace had not been discovered.

"I thought everything was found out when you and that Scotland Yard detective visited my flat. But Merrington seemed to have no suspicions of me, and I was just beginning to think I was finally safe when he remarked that the police knew of the missing necklace. I started, and that gave me away to you, at all events. I saw you glance at Wendover's card as it fell on the table, and I knew that you suspected me.

"After you had both left I had a bad half-hour. I could see I was in a dangerous fix. You were aware of the address of the diamond merchant to whom I had gone, and who, no doubt, would be able to identify me. I had made my own position worse by lying about the War Office telegram, as could easily be proved. There was also the possibility that the police might find out about my return to Heredith on the night of the murder. I did not then see what all these facts portended for me, though I do now. But I feared arrest for the theft of the necklace, with the alternatives of imprisonment if I kept silent, or facing a horrible scandal if I told the truth. I was not prepared for either.

"I slept at an hotel that night because I feared arrest, but next morning, early, I returned to the flat to exchange my khaki for a civilian suit. After thinking over things during the night I had come to the conclusion that I had most to fear from you, and I decided to watch you. If you did not visit Wendover's place during the day it seemed to me that I might be alarming myself needlessly. You know what happened. I bolted when I saw you emerge from the buildings, and wandered about for hours, not knowing what was best to do. When I discovered that I had no money—nothing in my pockets except that cursed necklace, which I had taken with me because I knew the flat would be searched—I decided to return to the flat for the money I had left behind in my other clothes. I was too late. When I reached Sherryman Street I saw two men watching the flat from the garden of the square opposite, and I knew I would be arrested if I went inside.

"What's the use of talking about what followed? I hadn't the ghost of a show from the start. Do you think you know anything about London? Believe me, you don't until you have been cast adrift in it with empty pockets. It's a city of vampires and stony hearts, a seething inhuman hell where you can wander till you drop and die without anyone giving a pitying glance—much less a helping hand. Even a man's guardian angel deserts him. It doesn't take a man very long to get to the gutter, to fall lower and lower until there's nothing but the Thames Embankment or the mortuary in front of him. I've had my eyes opened—I've talked to some of these poor devils in this Christian city. But what's the good of telling you this? I've been down to the gutter myself the last few days, falling each day to lower depths, tramping hungry and footsore in the midst of herds of respectable human brutes, slinking away from the eye of every policeman, pawning clothes for the price of a verminous bed, to lie awake all night knowing that I would be murdered by the vulture-faced degenerates sleeping in the same hovel, if they had caught a glimpse of the necklace.

"How many wild schemes have I planned in the night for raising money on the necklace in the morning! Once I went into a pawnshop, but the pawnbroker's eyes glittered when I spoke of pearls, and I got away as quickly as I could. I suppose there was a reward, and he was on the look out for me. One way and another I have been through hell. I feel like a man in a fever. I was drenched through yesterday, and I've had no food for twenty-four hours."

He ceased, and sat staring into vacancy as though he were again passing through the horror of his wanderings. Then another fit of coughing seized him, prolonged and violent. When it had subsided he looked at Colwyn with bloodshot eyes.

"I feel pretty bad," he said weakly.

That fact had been apparent to the detective for some time past. Nepcote's frequent fits of coughing and a peculiar nasal intensity of utterance suggested symptoms of pneumonia. As Colwyn lifted the telephone receiver to summon a doctor, the thought occurred to him that, if the immediate problem of the disposal of Nepcote had been settled by his illness, his inability to answer questions necessitated his own return to the moat-house without delay. In any case, that course was inevitable after what he had just heard. It was only at the place where the murder had been committed that he could hope to judge between the probabilities of Nepcote's strange story and Hazel Rath's confession. It was there, unless he was very much mistaken, that the final solution of the Heredith mystery must be sought.

CHAPTER XXVI

It was late afternoon when Colwyn reached Heredith the following day. The brief English summer, dying under the intolerable doom of evanescence for all things beautiful, presented the spectacle of creeping decay in a hectic flare of russet and crimson, like a withered woman striving to stave off the inevitable with pitiful dyes and rouge.

In this scene the moat-house was in perfect harmony, attuned by its own decrepitude to the general dissolution of its surroundings. Its aspect was a shuttered front of sightlessness, a brick and stone blindness to the changes of the seasons and the futility of existence. The terraced gardens had put on the death tints of autumn, but the house showed an aged indifference to the tricks of enslaved nature at the bidding of creation.

Colwyn's ring at the door was answered by Milly Saker, whose rustic stare at the sight of him was followed by an equally broad grin of recognition. She ushered him into the hall, and went in search of Miss Heredith. In a moment or two Miss Heredith appeared. She looked worn and ill, but she greeted Colwyn with a gracious smile and a firm handshake, and took him to the library. Refreshments were brought in, and while Colwyn sipped a glass of wine his hostess uttered the opening conversational commonplaces of an English lady. Had he a pleasant journey down? The roads were very good for motoring at that time of year, and the country was looking beautiful. Many people thought it was the best time for seeing the country. It was a fine autumn, but the local farmers thought the signs pointed to a hard winter. Thus she chatted, until the glass of sherry was finished. Then she lapsed into silence, with a certain expectancy in her mild glance, as though waiting for Colwyn to announce the object of his visit.

"I presume you have come down to see Phil?" she said, as Colwyn did not speak. "Unfortunately he is not at home," she went on, answering her own question in the feminine manner. "He has gone to Devon with Mr. Musard for a few days. It was my idea. I wanted him taken out of himself. He is moping terribly, and of course that is bad for him. I hope to persuade him to go with Vincent for a complete change when this—this terrible business is finished." Again her eye sought his.

"When do you expect them to return?"

"To-morrow night. Phil would not stay away longer. He has been expecting to hear from you. Can you stay till then?"

"Quite easily. In fact, I came down prepared to stop for a day or so. I have some further inquiries to make which will occupy me during that time."

"Then of course you will stay with us, Mr. Colwyn."

"You are very kind, but I do not wish to trouble you. I have engaged a room at the inn."

"It is no trouble. I will send down a man for your things. Phil