CHAPTER XXVII
The gun-room was dark and silent as a vault. In the deep recesses thearmoured phantoms of dead and gone Herediths seemed to be watching theintruder with hidden eyes behind the bars of their tilting helmets andvisored salades. The light of Colwyn's electric torch fell on the shellof a mighty warrior who stood with one steel gauntlet raised as thoughin readiness to defend the honour of his house. His initials, "P.H.,"were engraved on his giant steel breast, and his steel heels flourisheda pair of fearful spurs, with rowels like daggers. Standing by thisgiant was a tiny suit of armour, not more than three feet in height,which might have been worn by a child.
"A strange pair," murmured Colwyn, pausing a moment to glance at them.As he turned his light in their direction his eye was caught by aninscription cut in the stone above their heads, and he drew nearer andread that the large suit had been worn by the former Philip Heredith, "ATrue Knight of God." The smaller suit had been made for a dwarf attachedto his house, who had followed his master through the Crusades, andfought gallantly by his side.
Colwyn turned away and flashed his light along the walls in search ofthe case of pistols. His torch glanced over the numerous trophiesadorning the walls, lances, swords, daggers, steel head-pieces,bascinets, peaked morions--relics of a departed age of chivalry, whenknights quarrelled prettily for ladies, and fighting was fair and open,before civilization had enriched warfare with the Christian attributesof gas-shells, liquid fire, and high explosives. Then the light fell onthat which he was seeking--a dark oblong box, with brass corners, and abrass handle closing into the lid.
Colwyn lifted the case down from the embrasure in which it was placed,and carried it to the bagatelle table. A brief examination of the locksatisfied him that it was too complicated and strong to be picked orbroken. It was curiously wrought in brass, of an intricate antiquepattern which would have puzzled a modern locksmith. He turned the caseover, and saw that the bottom had been mortised and screwed. The screwshad been deeply countersunk, and were embedded in rust, but a few wereloose with age. Colwyn unscrewed these loose ones with his pocket-knife,and then set about unloosening the others.
It was a tedious task, but Colwyn lightened it with the aid of a bottleof gun oil which he found in one of the presses. Some of the screwsyielded immediately to that bland influence, and came out easily. Othersremained fast in the intractable way of rusty screws, but Colwynpersevered, and by dint of oiling, coaxing, and unscrewing, finally hadthe satisfaction of seeing all the screws lying in a little greasy brownheap on the faded green cloth of the bagatelle table. The next thing wasto lever off the bottom of the lid. That was not difficult, because theglue in the mortises had long since perished. Soon the bottom was lyingon the table beside the screws, and the interior of the case revealed.
The pair of weapons which Colwyn lifted from the case were horse pistolsof a period when countryfolk feared to ride abroad without some suchprotection against highwaymen. They were superior specimens of theirtype. They were beautifully made, rich in design and solid in form, withebony stocks and chased silver mountings. The long barrels weredamascened, and the carved handles terminated in flat steel butts whichwould have cracked the pate of any highwayman if the shot missed fire.As Colwyn anticipated, the pistols were muzzle-loaders. The cock, whichlaid over considerably, was in the curious form of a twisted snake. Whenthe trigger was pulled the head of the snake fell on the nipple.
Colwyn examined them carefully. He first ascertained that they wereunloaded by probing them with the ramrod which was attached to each by asteel hinge. Then he ran his finger round the inside of the muzzles toascertain whether either pistol had been recently fired. One was clean,but from the muzzle of the other he withdrew a finger grimed withgunpowder. While he was doing this his other hand came in contact withsomething slightly uneven in the smooth metal surface of the butt. Heturned the pistol over, and noticed a small inner circle in the flatsteel. It was a small hinged lid, which hid a pocket in the handle. Heraised the little lid with his finger-nail, and a shower of percussioncaps fell on the bagatelle table. This contrivance for holding caps wasnot new to Colwyn. He had seen it in other old-fashioned muzzle-loaders.
Colwyn compared the caps which had dropped on the table with the one hehad found upstairs. They were the same size. He tried the solitary capon the nipple, and found that it fitted perfectly. As he did so, he sawsomething resembling a thread of yellow wool caught in the twisted steelof the hammer. It was a minute fragment, so small as to be hardlynoticeable. Colwyn was quite unable to determine what it was, but itspresence there puzzled him considerably, and he was at a loss tounderstand how it had got caught in the hammer of the pistol. It struckhim that the thread might be khaki, and his mind reverted to his earlierdiscovery of the patch of khaki in the wood outside the moat-house.
It was with the hope of finding out whether this pistol had been latelyused that Colwyn turned his attention to the velvet-lined interior ofthe case. The inside was divided into a large compartment for thepistols and several small lidded spaces. In one of these he found someshot, a box of percussion caps, and a powder-flask half-full of commongunpowder. Another space contained implements for cleaning the pistols.The contents of the next compartment puzzled him. There were some oddlengths of knotted string, and a coil of yellow tubular fabric, aboutthe thickness of his little finger, some inches in length. Colwynrecognized it at once. It was the wick of a tinder-lighter, then beingsold by thousands by English tobacconists to replace a war-time scarcityof matches, and greatly used by cigarette smokers.
The mystery of the presence of the wick in the pistol-case was notlessened because it enabled Colwyn to identify the tiny yellow fragmentadhering to the cock of the pistol. He picked up the wick and observedthat one end was cut clean, but the other end was blackened and burnt.At that discovery there entered his mind the first prescient warning ofthe possibility of some deep plan in which the pistol and the wickplayed important parts. With his brain seeking for a solution of thatpossibility, he proceeded to examine the pieces of string.
They were odd lengths of ordinary thick twine, but they all seemed toconsist of loose ends which had been knotted together. It was not untilColwyn took them out of the compartment that he noticed an amazingpeculiarity about them. Each piece of knotted string was burnt at bothends.
There are some discoveries which spring into the mind with shatteringswiftness. This was one of them. A revelation seemed to come to Colwynas light from the sky at midnight, which, lays everything bare in onefrightful flash.
"Is it possible?"
He felt as though these words rushed from him like a thunder-rollreverberating through the empty space around him. But his set lips hadnot uttered a single sound. With tingling nerves he proceeded to carryout an experiment. He first laid the wick of the tinder-lighter alongthe stock of the pistol, just behind the hammer. He next took up one ofthe lengths of string, and pulling back the hammer and the trigger ofthe pistol, proceeded to bind them both firmly back with the string,which he passed twice round the wick. When he had tied the string tighthe lit a match and applied it to the end of the wick which was farthestfrom the string. His idea was to see whether this extemporized fusewould creep along the stock of the pistol, burn the string, and releasethe bound cock and trigger.
The wick smouldered and glowed, and began to creep towards the string,which crossed the stock of the pistol about three inches from theburning end. Colwyn took out his watch and timed its progress. In fourminutes the first inch of the wick was consumed, and the spark at theend continued to creep sullenly forward in a dull red glow. In anothereight minutes it reached the string, and Colwyn eagerly watched theprocess of the burning of the binding. The string singed, smouldered,and when nearly severed, sprang apart under the pressure of the hammerand trigger it had been holding back. The released hammer fell with fullforce on the cap on the nipple, and exploded it.
There, then, seemed the explanation. Mrs. Heredith had been shot withNepcote's revolver, but it was not
the deliberately deadened sound ofthat slight weapon which had startled the guests in the dining-room onthe night of the murder. The report they had heard was made by theheavier pistol in front of him. It was a ruse of terrifying simplicitybut diabolical ingenuity. The wick of the tinder-lighter was anadmirable slow match, obtainable in any tobacconist's shop for a fewpence, which, by means of this trick, had established a false alibi forthe actual murderer by causing the report which had reached thedining-room, and sent the inmates hastening upstairs to ascertain thecause. The shot which had mortally wounded Mrs. Heredith must have beenfired before.
How long before? Obviously not very long. That would have been dangerousto the murderer's plans. He had to consider two things. There was thechance of somebody entering the room before the false charge exploded,and the possibility that the coldness of the body of his victim mightarouse medical suspicions. Colwyn did not think that the criminal hadavoided killing Mrs. Heredith so as to ensure against that risk ofdiscovery. The infliction of a mortal wound which failed to causeimmediate death not only required a high degree of anatomical knowledge,but left the door open to a dying confession which might have upset thewhole plan. Fate had helped the murderer to that extent.
But the murderer owed more than that to Fate. It was to that grimgoddess he was indebted for the last wonderful touch of actuality whichlifted the whole contrivance so superbly above the realm of artifice.Suspicion was in the last degree unlikely in any case, but Hazel Rath'sentry and loud scream, just before the moment fixed for the explosion,ensured complete success by adding a natural verisimilitude which mighthave deceived the very Spirit of Truth. Colwyn esteemed himselffortunate indeed in lighting on what he believed to be the facts. Whocould have imagined a situation in which whimsical Destiny hadironically stooped down from her high place to dabble ignobly in amurderer's ghastly plot?
The one point which perplexed Colwyn was the successful concealment ofthe pistol on the night of the murder. That part of the plan was asessential to the murderer as the false report, but it seemed strangethat the pistol had not been discovered when the room was searched. Anexamination of the grate upstairs might reveal the reason.
Before leaving the gun-room Colwyn replaced one of the pistols andrestored the case as he had found it to its original position. Hecarried away with him the pistol which had been used.
When he reached the upstairs bedroom he locked the door beforeproceeding to examine the fireplace. It was immediately apparent to himthat the pistol had not been placed in the grate or beneath it. Eitherplace would have meant discovery when the room was searched. It was acareful examination of the upper portion of the grate which suggestedthe hiding-place. The weapon could have been safely hidden within thebroad iron flange running round the open damper of the grate.
The complete revelation of this portion of the murderer's design came toColwyn as he was passing his hand over the inner surface of this ledge.It was a register grate, and the space at the back had not been filledin. The murderer, when concealing the pistol at the top of the grate,had only to balance it carefully on the flange, with the muzzle pointinginto the room, to ensure that the recoil from the report would cause theweapon to fall into the deep hole between the back of the grate and thechimney.
This additional proof of the murderer's perverted intelligence impressedColwyn as much as the mechanism for the false report. The pistol,blindly recoiling and jumping behind the grate after the explosion ofthe blank charge, was almost as effectually concealed as at the bottomof the sea, and might have remained there for years without discovery.Colwyn plunged his arm into the hole, but could not reach the bottom.
But the murderer had more in his mind than the effectual concealment ofthe pistol, important though that was to him. The grate was an excellentchoice for two other reasons. It carried the slight vapour from thetinder wick up the chimney, and the convex iron interior formed anexcellent sounding board which would enhance the sound of the report.Truly the dark being who had planned it all had left nothing to chance.He had foreseen everything. His handiwork bore the stamp of unholygenius.
Who had done this thing? Who had sought, with such patient cunning, toupset those evidential principles by which blind Justice gropes herhesitating way to Truth? In concocting his masterpiece of malignantingenuity the murderer had worked alone. His only accomplice--apart fromthe after-hand of Fate--was a piece of automatic mechanism which haddone his bidding secretly, and would never have betrayed him. It wasthis ability to work alone, scheming and brooding in solitaryconcentration until the whole of the horrible conception had beenperfected in every degree, which stamped the designer as a ferociouscriminal of unusual mould, remorseless as a tiger, with a neurasthenicmind swayed by the unbridled savagery of natural impulse.
As Colwyn meditated over the murder, his original impression of theguests assembled in the dining-room downstairs in a premeditated sceneset for its production came back to him with renewed force. The murdererhad taken his part in that scene as one of the unconscious audience,dining and taking his share in the conversation, while his secretconsciousness was strained to an intense anticipation of the falsesignal from his mechanical accomplice upstairs. Colwyn could picture himjoining in the mockery of meaningless phrases with dry lips, his earslistening for every sound, his eyes covertly watching the crawling handsof the clock. Then, when the crack had pealed forth, he had been able toexchange suspense for action, and rush upstairs with the others,confident in the feeling that, let suspicion point where it would, itcould not fall on him.
But the murderer had not foreseen the scream which preceded the shot.How had he comported himself under the shock of that cry, which wasoutside the region of his calculations? He had not time to reflect uponits origin, to investigate its source. He had to steel his nerves toface it because he dared not do otherwise. But its sudden effect on thenerve centres of his brain, previously strained almost to the breakingpoint, must have brought him to the verge of a subsequent collapse.
Colwyn believed he saw the end in sight. The presumptions, the facts,and the motive all pointed to one figure as the murderer of VioletHeredith. She had been killed from the dual motive of punishment in herown case and vengeance on a greater offender than herself. The alibi hadbeen devised to ensure a tremendous revenge on the man by bringing himto the gallows as her supposed murderer. That part of the plan had goneastray, so the murderer, in the fanatical resolve of his latent fixedidea, had recourse to a further expedient as daring and original as thescheme which failed. The second instrument had been the means of his ownundoing.
But as he reached this final stage of his reasoning, Colwyn stoppedshort in something like dismay. He had left a point of vital importanceout of his calculations. If the murderer was the man he thought, he wasdownstairs in the dining-room at the time the false shot was fired. Thenwhose hand had clutched Hazel Rath's throat in the murdered woman'sbedroom upstairs, just before the shot was fired?
Colwyn slowly paced up and down the room in the midnight silence,conning all the facts over again in the light of this overlookedincident.
CHAPTER XXVIII
The three dined together in the big dining-room almost in silence.Musard and Philip Heredith had not returned until after six, and theirfirst knowledge of Colwyn's presence was by some oversight deferreduntil they met at the dinner table. In the awkwardness of that surprisethey sat down to dine, and Musard's half-hearted efforts to start aconversation met with little response from his companions. Colwyn waspreoccupied with his own thoughts, which apparently affected hisappetite, for he sent away dish after dish untouched. Phil hastened theservice of the meal considerably, as though he were anxious to get itover as speedily as possible in order to hear what the detective had tosay. As soon as the dessert was on the table he turned to Colwyn eagerlyand asked him if he had any news.
"I have many things to say," was the response.
"In that case, shall we take our coffee into the smoking-room?"suggested Musard with a slight glance at the hovering
figure of thebutler.
"I prefer to remain here, if you do not mind," said Colwyn.
Musard shot a puzzled look at him, which the detective met with a clearcold gaze which revealed nothing. There was another silent pause whilethey waited for the butler to leave the room. But Tufnell was pouringout coffee and handing cigars with the slow deliberation of a mansufficiently old to have outlived any illusions about the value of time.Philip Heredith lit a cigarette. Musard waved away the cigar-box andproduced a strong black cheroot from the crocodile-skin case. Colwyndeclined a cigar, and his coffee remained untasted in front of him.
"You can leave the room now, Tufnell," said Phil impatiently. "Do notreturn until I ring. We do not wish to be disturbed."
Tufnell bowed and left the room. As he did so Colwyn pushed back hischair and walked across to the window, where he stood for a few momentslooking out. A wan young moon gleamed through the black tapestry of theavenue of trees, pointing white fingers at the house and plunging theold garden into deep pools of shadow. The trees huddled in their rows,whispering menacingly, and stretching half-stripped branches to thesilent sky.
Colwyn returned to the table and confronted the two men who wereawaiting him. He glanced from one to the other of their attentive faces,and said abruptly:
"Hazel Rath is innocent."
"I was certain of it." Philip Heredith's hand came down emphatically onthe table in front of him as he made this declaration. "I knew it allalong," he added in additional emphasis.
"This is an amazing piece of news, Mr. Colwyn," said Musard, turningearnestly to the detective. "Who, then--"
Colwyn made a detaining gesture.
"Wait," he said. "I cannot tell you that just yet." He turned to Phil,whose dark eyes were fixed on his face. "It was you who asked me to tryand solve the mystery of your wife's death. It is to you that myexplanation is due. Shall I speak freely in Mr. Musard's presence, orwould you rather hear me alone?"
"I can go to the smoking-room," said Musard, rising as he spoke.
But Phil waved him to his seat again.
"No, no, Musard, stay where you are. There is no reason why you shouldnot hear what Mr. Colwyn has to say. Your advice may be needed," headded as an afterthought.
"So be it," said Colwyn. "Then I had better commence by informing youthat Hazel Rath has broken her silence. She has made a statement to thepolice, which, whilst affirming her innocence, does very little to clearup the murder. Her story, briefly, is that she went up to the left wingabout half-past seven, noticed that Mrs. Heredith's room was indarkness, and went in under the impression that she might be ill and inneed of assistance. She groped her way across the room to turn on thelight, and she had reached the head of the bed and was feeling for theswitch when a hand clutched her throat. She screamed wildly, and thehand fell away. A moment afterwards the report of a shot filled theroom. She found the electric switch, and turned on the light. The firstthing she saw was a revolver--Nepcote's revolver--lying at her feet nearthe head of the bed. Then her eyes turned to the bed, and she saw Mrs.Heredith, bleeding from the mouth and nose. While she was attempting torender her some assistance she heard footsteps on the stairs, andthought of her own safety. She switched off the light and ran out,carrying the revolver and the handkerchief with which she had beenwiping the blood from the dying woman's lips. She was just in time toconceal herself behind the curtains in the corridor and escape theobservation of those who were rushing upstairs. There she stayed whilethe rooms were searched, and was afterwards able to steal downstairsunobserved and gain the safety of her mother's apartments, where therevolver and the handkerchief were subsequently found."
"This is a remarkable story," said Musard slowly. "Do the police believeit?"
"They do not, but I have my reasons for thinking it true," respondedColwyn. "The next step in the story of how this unhappy girl became thevictim of an apparently irrebuttable set of circumstances through herown silence, has to do with another person's secret visit to themoat-house on the night of the murder. That person was a man, who cameto return to Mrs. Heredith the necklace which we subsequently discoveredto be missing from her locked jewel-case. It is not necessary to relatehow the necklace came to be in his hands. He had undertaken to returnthe necklace from London to enable Mrs. Heredith to produce it on thefollowing day, and it was arranged between them that when he reached themoat-house that night he was to enter the unused door in the left wing,which was to be previously unlocked for him, and was to wait on thestaircase until Mrs. Heredith was able to steal down to him and obtainthe jewels. That plan was upset by Tufnell finding the door unlocked,and locking it again before his arrival. When he did arrive he foundhimself unable to get in."
"Stop a moment," exclaimed Musard hoarsely. "This story goes too deepfor me. Who is this man? Do you know him? Has he anything to do with themurder?"
"Yes, I know him, and he has much to do with the murder," said thedetective. "Shall I mention his name, Mr. Heredith?"
Phil nodded, as though he were unable to speak.
"The man is Captain Nepcote."
"Nepcote!" A swift flash of wrath came into Musard's heavy dark eyes ashe uttered the name. Then, in a wider understanding of the sordidinterpretation of Colwyn's story, he hesitatingly added: "I think I see.It was Nepcote's revolver. Was it he who shot Violet?"
"Before answering that question it is necessary to give Nepcote'sexplanation of his actions on that night. His own story is that he didnot enter the house. He says that while he was waiting outside he hearda scream followed by a shot, and he then hid in the woods in front ofthe house until he thought it safe to return to London. He declares heis innocent of the murder."
"That is a lie!" Phil burst forth. "Who will believe him?" He stoppedabruptly, and turned fiercely to Colwyn. "How do you know Nepcote saidthis?" he demanded.
"Because I saw him the night before I left London. He told meeverything, and gave me the necklace."
"And you let him go again? Are you mad?" Phil was on his feet, shakingwith excitement.
"What makes you think I let him go?" retorted Colwyn coldly. "You neednot be afraid that your wife's murderer will escape justice. Nepcote islying ill of pneumonia in a private hospital in London. He can onlyescape by death. But the manner in which you have received thisinformation suggests to my mind that you have had your own suspicions ofNepcote all along, but have kept them to yourself."
"I cannot conceive that to be any business of yours," replied the youngman, with a touch of hauteur.
"It seems to me that it is, in the circumstances. You came to me seekingmy assistance because you believed in the innocence of Hazel Rath,but--as I am now convinced--you suppressed information which pointed toCaptain Nepcote."
"I told you all that I thought necessary."
"You told me that your wife had been shot with Nepcote's revolver. Isthat what you mean?"
"Yes. That was sufficient to put you on the track without taking youinto my confidence about ... something which affected my honour and thehonour of my family." Phil turned very pale as he uttered the lastwords.
"Perhaps Phil should have told you, but you must make allow--" commencedMusard. But Colwyn silenced him with an imperative glance.
"At the time you came to see me, you believed that Captain Nepcote hadmurdered your wife?" he said, facing Phil.
"I did."
"Do you mind telling me now on what ground you based that belief?"
"I fail to recognize your right to cross-question me," replied the youngman haughtily, "but I will answer your question. It was for the reasonthat you have supposed. I suspected his relations with my wife. Therewas his revolver to prove that he had been in her room. I do not knowwhy Hazel Rath carried it away."
"Perhaps I could enlighten you on that point. As you knew so much, it isequally certain that you knew about your wife's missing necklace, thoughyou did not tell me of that, either. But I will not go into that now--Iwish to hurry on to my conclusion. I have at least done all that youasked me
to do; I have proved Hazel Rath's innocence. But I have provedmore than that. Captain Nepcote is also innocent."
"I should like to hear how you arrive at that conclusion." Phil stroveto utter the words calmly, but his trembling lips revealed his inwardagitation.
"His story, as told to me, fits in with facts of which he could have hadno knowledge. He says he found the door of the left wing locked, and weknow it was locked by Tufnell more than an hour before. He states thatafter the shot he hid in the woods in front of the house. It was thereTufnell thought he saw somebody hiding; it was there I found a scrap ofkhaki adhering to a bramble at the spot indicated by Nepcote as hishiding-place. Tufnell admits that he called out in alarm when his eyefell on the crouching figure. Nepcote says that he saw Tufnell, heardhis cry, and plunged deeper into the bushes for safety. Tufnell returnedalong the carriage drive twenty minutes afterwards with Detective Caldewand Sergeant Lumbe. Nepcote heard the crunch of their feet on the gravelas they passed. His accuracy in these details which he could notpossibly have known helped me to the conclusion that the whole of hisstory was true."
"He had plenty of time to commit the murder, nevertheless," said Phil.
"It is useless for you to try and cling to that theory--now."
There was something in the tone in which these words were uttered whichcaused the young man to look swiftly at the detective from beneathfurrowed brows.
"You seem to have constituted yourself the champion of this scoundrel,"he said, in a changed harsh voice.
Musard glanced from one to the other with troubled eyes. There was agrowing hint of menace in their conversation which his mind, deeplyagitated by the strange disclosures of the evening, could only fearwithout fathoming.
"I do not understand you," he said simply, addressing himself to Colwyn."If this man Nepcote did not commit the murder, who did? Was it not hewho was in the bedroom when Hazel Rath went there in the dark?"
"No," said Colwyn; "it was not he."
"Who was the man, then, who clutched Hazel Rath, by the throat?"persisted Musard.
"It was no man," responded Colwyn, in a gloomy voice. "_That_ was thepoint which baffled me for hours when I thought the whole truth waswithin my grasp. Again and again I sought vainly for the answer, until,in mental weariness and utter despair, I was tempted to believe that thepowers of evil had combined to shield the perpetrator of this atrociousmurder from justice. Then it came to me--the last horrible revelation inthis hellish plot. It was the hand of the dying woman, spasmodicallyclutching at the empty air in her death agonies, which accidentally camein contact with Hazel Rath's throat, and loosened her brooch."
"Oh, this is too terrible," murmured Musard. His swarthy face showed anashen tint. "What do you mean? What are you keeping back? Where does allthis lead to?"
"It leads to the exposure of the trick--the trick of a false report bywhich the murderer sought to procure an alibi and revenge."
"What do you mean? What have you found out?" cried Phil, leaping to hisfeet and facing Colwyn.
As he uttered the words, a loud shot in the room overhead rang out withstartling distinctness.
"I mean--that," said Colwyn quietly.
Even up to the moment of his experiment he was not quite certain. But inthe one swift glance they exchanged, everything was revealed to each ofthem.
Before Musard could frame the question which trembled on his amazedlips, Phil spoke. His face was very white, and his dark eyes blazing:
"Yes. That is it. You have found me out." His voice, deepened to abitter intensity, had a deliberate intonation which was almost solemn."What did they do to me? Shall I ever forget my feelings when,unobserved by them, I caught them in the house one day, whispering andkissing? I walked straight out into the woods to be alone with my shame.My brain was on fire. When I recalled his lecherous looks and her wantonmeaning glances I was tempted to destroy myself in misery and despair.Human nature--ah, God, what a beastly thing it is. I had trusted themboth so utterly--I loved her so deeply. How had they repaid my trust andlove? By deceiving me, under my eyes, in my own home, before my marriagewas three months old.
"That night I dreamt of obscene things. I awoke with their imageshovering by my bedside, looking at me with sneering eyes, mocking mewith lewd gestures. 'Your honour and the honour of the Herediths--Whereis it?' they kept repeating: 'Sold by the wanton you have made yourwife. What is honour to the lust of the flesh? There is nothing sostrong in the world.' But as I watched them the ceiling rolled away, andin the darkness of the sky a stern and implacable face appeared. And itsaid, 'There is one thing stronger than honour, stronger even that thelust of the flesh, and that is--Death.'
"It was the answer to a question I had been asking myself ever since Iknew. I got up, and sat by the open window, to plan how I should killthem both. But I wanted the man to feel more than a swift thunderstrokeof mortal agony. I wished to make him suffer as I had suffered, but atfirst I could see no way.
"Then it came to me in the strangest way--a light, a direction, a guide.I had been smoking as I sat there thinking--smoking cigarettes which Ilit with a little automatic lighter I always used. I must have laid itdown carelessly, for I was interrupted in my meditations by the sight ofa thin trail of vapour ascending from the window ledge. I had failed toput the extinguisher on the lighter, and the wick had gone on burning.As I watched the red spark crawling almost imperceptibly along theyellow wick, there dawned in my mind the first glimmering of the idea ofa slow match and a delayed report. Bit by bit it took form, and themeans of my revenge was made clear to me. I went back to bed and sleptsoundly.
"I was in no hurry to act. There was much to think over, much to do,before the plan was finally perfected. I carried out experiments in thegun-room when everybody was in bed, secure in the knowledge that noreport, however loud, could penetrate from those thick walls upstairs.While I was making ready I watched them both. Not a furtive glance orcaress passed between them which I did not see.
"The night my aunt asked Violet about the necklace I suspected that itwas no longer in her possession. I guessed that by her evasive answersand telltale face. When she left the room and went upstairs I creptafter her in the shadows and followed her to the door of Nepcote's room.I listened to their conversation; I heard him promise her to returnsecretly to the moat-house on the following night with the necklace. Myheart leapt as I listened. I believed that I had him.
"I stole away quietly without waiting to learn any more, but I stayed uptill far into the night preparing my final plans. My intention was toshoot her just before dinner, and arrange for the false report toexplode after he had arrived and hidden himself in the old staircase,waiting for her to go to him. Then, when the report startled everybodyin the dining-room, I intended to be the first to rush upstairs, andlead the search in the direction of the old staircase. I would have hadhim by the throat, before he had time to get away. How would he havebeen able to account for his secret presence in the house when herjewels were in his pocket and her dead body upstairs, close to where hewas hiding?
"I had intended to kill Violet with a small revolver which I had boughtin a second-hand place at London last winter, but Nepcote's carelessnessin leaving his own revolver in the gun-room gave the last finishingtouch to my plan. I could scarcely believe my luck when I found it. Itseemed as though he himself were playing into my hands. I hid it away,expecting that there would be inquiries, but there were none. He hadforgotten all about it. It was strange, too, that Violet herself helpedby telling my aunt before dinner on the night of her pretended illnessthat she did not wish to be disturbed by anybody. That removed a defectin my arrangements which had caused me much anxious thought. I hadfeared that somebody, probably a servant, might enter the room in theperiod between the first and second reports. It was a chance I could notafford to overlook, and I could see no way of guarding against it exceptby locking the door, which I did not want to do. I wanted to leave thedoor partly open so as to make sure of the second report penetrating tothe dining-room do
wnstairs.
"When my aunt gave me Violet's message in the library shortly beforedinner I knew that the moment had arrived. The altered arrangements foran earlier dinner cost me a moment's perplexity, but no more. One cannothurry one's own guests, and I knew it would be impossible to get dinnerover as quickly as my aunt anticipated. If it were ending too quicklyfor my purpose it would be an easy matter to introduce a subject whichwould set somebody talking. That, as you know, is what actuallyhappened.
"After my aunt left me I waited until the last possible moment beforeslipping upstairs. The revolver and the pistol were locked away in myown bedroom in readiness. I got them out. The pistol was completelyprepared except for the cap. I had bound a twelve inch tinder-wick tothe stock in order to allow for a delay of nearly fifty minutes betweenthe lighting and the report. I knew that Nepcote expected to arrive atthe moat-house by half-past seven at the latest, but I gave him a marginof a few minutes for unexpected delays. I put the pistol in my pocket,and wrapping the revolver in a silk muffler to deaden the report, wentswiftly to my wife's room. I closed the door behind me as I entered.
"She was lying on the bed with her eyes closed, and did not hear meapproach. That helped me. Can you understand my feelings. I was about todestroy something I loved better than life itself, but it was not shewho was lying on the bed. _She_ had died before--died by her ownact--leaving behind her another woman whose life was a living lie, whowas so corrupt and worthless as to be unfit to live. It was _that_ I wasgoing to destroy. I felt no compunction--no remorse. As I placed themuzzle of the revolver against her breast, she opened her eyes interror, and saw me. I pulled the trigger quickly.... As I did so I heardthe dinner gong sound downstairs.
"The muffled report made less noise than the clapping of a pair ofhands. I knew that faint sound would not be heard downstairs. She nevermoved, and I thought she was dead. I bent over the fireplace, shook somecaps out of the butt of the pistol, and placed one on the nipple. Then Ilit a match and started my prepared fuse. It was an easy matter to placethe pistol in position at the top of the grate; the difficulty ofrecovering it subsequently was not made manifest to me until after myillness, although my previous secret examination of the grate hadconvinced me that the recoil of the explosion would cause the pistol tofall to the bottom of the chimney behind the grate. When I had placedthe pistol in position I turned off the electric light, and opened thewindow to allow the fumes of the burning wick to escape. Then I hurrieddownstairs. I was not in the room three minutes altogether. I saw nobodyon my way down; nearly everybody had gone in to dinner, but I was intime to sit down with the others.
"I felt quite cold and collected as I sat at the dinner table waitingfor the moment of my vengeance. I felt as though I was under the controlof some force immensely stronger than myself which held me firm withgiant hands while the minutes slowly ebbed away. I am sure there wasnothing unusual in my behaviour. I pretended to eat, and joined in theconversation around me.
"The report did not come at the moment I anticipated, but I was notperturbed at the delay. My experiments had taught me the difficulty offixing an explosion for an exact period. The time was in generalapproximately the same, but there were reasons which caused a slightdifference. The wick always burnt at a uniform rate; the trouble waswith the string. Sometimes it was slow in catching. Sometimes thepressure of the string partly extinguished the wick and made combustionslower as it neared the point of contact. Once I tied the string sotight that the wick went out altogether just before reaching the string.But I had taken measures to overcome these little irregularities, and tomake sure of the string catching readily I had rubbed a little petrol onit where it crossed the wick.
"But it was the scream before the report which upset my calculations andalmost caused me to collapse. When that terrible cry rang out my falsestrength fled from me, leaving me weak and trembling. I think I shouldhave betrayed myself if the report had not followed so quickly, throwingeverybody into the same state of confusion as myself. I do not know howI managed to make my limbs carry me upstairs with the others. I did notknow what had happened. My brain refused to act. I was conscious ofnothing except that a great wheel seemed turning inside my head,tightening all my nerves to such taut agony that I could hardly refrainfrom crying aloud.
"What I said or did when I found myself in the bedroom I do not know.When I saw that everything was as I had arranged my mind began swinginglike a pendulum towards my revenge, and I struggled to lead the searchtowards the staircase. But I was unable to move. I was like a man in adream, encompassed by invisible obstacles. Then the wheel in my headsuddenly relaxed, I felt the room and its objects slipping from me, andeverything went black.
"You know about my illness. It was not until I was supposed to berecovering that the power of clear thought came back to me. There weredays when my brain was numb and powerless, like that of one newlyawakened from a terrible nightmare, striving to recall what hadhappened. Then one day the veil was drawn, and I remembered everything.My aunt was in the room, and I questioned her. She brought Musard to me,and from him I learnt the truth.
"Intuitively I realized what had happened. Hazel Rath had gone to theroom for some unknown reason, had seen my wife lying there, andscreamed. Then, hardly conscious of what she was doing, she picked upthe revolver I had left lying by the bedside, and ran out of the room infright. I was even able to divine a reason for her silence under theaccusation of murder. She felt that nobody would believe her story,especially after the history of her mother's past was brought to light.
"As I turned over what they had told me and realized that my own secretwas safe, I thought I saw the way to accomplish my revenge and saveHazel Rath. Up till then the revolver had not been identified asNepcote's. It seemed to me that the mere disclosure of that fact wassufficient to direct attention to Nepcote and bring to light hismovements on that night. But the detective who came to see me about therevolver was too foolish and obstinate to grasp the importance of myinformation. It was then I decided to go to you. It was daring, perhaps,but it seemed safe enough to me. I was determined to entangle Nepcote,and to free Hazel Rath.
"I told you no more than I had told to the other detective. I hadpowerful motives for reticence. If I had told you more you would haveseen that I had an ulterior reason for directing attention to Nepcote. Ihad not the least fear that you would discover my secret, but theknowledge, if imparted to you, would have weakened the impression Iwanted to convey by suggesting to your mind that I was actuated byhatred of Nepcote. Besides, I did not wish any living being to know ofmy shame. I believed that I could accomplish my revenge without its everbeing known. I thought Nepcote would prefer to perish as the victim ofcircumstances rather than incur public opprobrium by a defence which heknew would never be believed. The actual facts against him were toostrong. He could neither extenuate nor deny them. He could not explainhis lying telegrams, his secret return, his presence in the moat-house,his possession of the necklace, the revolver in the bedroom where thebody was. Therefore, it was only necessary to give you a starting point,because discovery was inevitable where so much was hidden. I saw to itthat the loss of the necklace was discovered after your arrival. Thatwas all you needed to know.
"I do not know what oversight of mine put you on the track of the truth.There was one, but I do not see how that could have helped you. It wasnot until the following afternoon in the gun-room, when Musard drew yourattention to the pistol-case, that I remembered that the pistol I hadused was still at the back of the fireplace upstairs, where apparentlyit had lain undiscovered during my illness. I had taken the precautionof concealing the key of the case, but I decided to restore the pistolthat night after you left. It was more difficult to recover than Ianticipated, owing to the depth of the space behind the grate. I had topush back the bedstead and use the tongs before I could reach it. Ibelieve it would have lain there undiscovered for years. There wasnothing else that I can recall, except that when I restored the pistol Isaw I had left the end of one of my experimental ti
nder-lighter wickslying in the case.
"But I do not wish to know how you found out, now that Nepcote hasescaped. I have nothing left to live for. The doctor thinks I amrecovering, but I knew that it was only the hope of revenge which keptme going. Now that is gone I have not long to live. I rejoice that it isso. But whatever had happened, I would have saved that poor girl, HazelRath.... I ask you to believe that ... Violet...."
He ceased, and with a weary gesture, let his head fall on hisoutstretched arms, as though the strength which bore him up while hetold his tale deserted him when he had made manifest the truth.
His two listeners sat for some minutes in silence, each engrossed in hisown thoughts. Musard stared gloomily at Phil with unseeing eyes. He wasas one who had passed through unimagined horrors in a space not to bemeasured by time, to emerge with a fatigued sense of the black malignityof unknown gods who create the passions of humanity for their own brutalsport. His moving lips betrayed a consciousness loosened from itsmoorings, tossed in a turbulent sea of disaster. Then they formed thewhispered words:
"The house was founded in horror and it ends in horror. So the oldtradition comes true."
The next moment he turned his eyes on Colwyn with a look askance, asthough he saw in him the instrument of this misery.
"Why did Hazel Rath keep silence?" he asked.
"Women have made greater sacrifices for love," Colwyn gently replied."Hazel Rath loved him, and kept silence to shield him. She would nothave spoken at all if suspicion had not fastened on Nepcote, and evenwhen she did speak she kept something back. We may now learn later whatactually passed between Hazel and Mrs. Heredith in the bedroom thatnight. My own opinion is that, while Hazel was bending over her, thedying woman whispered the name of her murderer."
"What are you going to do now?" Musard abruptly demanded, in suddenchange of mood, speaking as though there were nobody present but theirtwo selves.
"There is only one thing to do."
"Do you mean to let the world know the truth--to give him up tojustice?"
"What other course is there open for me to pursue?" said Colwyn sadly.
"I cannot see what earthly purpose will be gained by making thishorrible story public. Consider, I beg of you, all the circumstancesbefore you inflict this dreadful sorrow and scandal on an honouredfamily."
"It is because I have to consider all the circumstances that I have nooption."
"Is there no other way?" persisted Musard. "He is mad. He must have beenpossessed. You heard his story; his hallucinations were those of aninsane person. He had some justification. He would never have committedthis terrible deed of his own free will."
Colwyn did not reply. It was useless to point out that there is no suchthing as free will in human affairs, and that if Philip Heredith hadbeen impelled to his crime by the evil force of passions which werestronger than the restraining power of human reason, he must pay thefull price demanded by humanity for the only safeguard of its supremacy.
There was the sound of an opening door and footsteps outside, and avoice called:
"Phil! Vincent! Where are you?"
"They have returned!" Musard excitedly exclaimed. "What are they to betold?"
"I cannot say," replied Colwyn, casting a sombre glance at Phil'sdrooping and motionless figure.
There was something new in his posture--a stark stillness which arrestedhis eye. He stepped quickly to his side and bent over him.
"He is dead," he said.
"Dead? My God! Impossible!"
"It is quite true. It is better so."
"Vincent!" Miss Heredith's voice sounded not far away.
"She is coming here. Quick, what am I to say to her?"
"I cannot tell you," responded Colwyn, with another glance at the stillform. "It was he who called me in to solve this mystery, and I have donewhat he asked. I will leave you to tell her what you will, but I cannotkeep silence afterwards where the liberty of innocent people isinvolved. Justice is as impersonal as Truth herself."
"Vincent!" This time the voice sounded just outside the door.
"I must stop her--she must not come in here," said Musard, starting up.
But he was too late. The door opened, and Miss Heredith stood in thedoorway.
Her startled eyes took in the agitated face of Musard, and thentravelled to the drooping attitude of the figure at the table. She wentquickly past the two men, and bent over her nephew. As she did so, shesobbed aloud. All the pity and pathos of a woman, all the misery andmystery of a broken heart, welled forth in her faint mournful cry.
"This will kill her," said Musard savagely.
But Colwyn felt that it would not be so. As he turned from the room,leaving the living and the dead together, he knew that when the firstbitterness of the shock was over, and she was faced again with theconsciousness of duty, she would call on her abiding faith to help herto wear, without flinching, the heavy grey garment of life.
THE END
By REES & WATSON
THE MYSTERY OF THE DOWNS
THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
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