CHAPTER V
A shaded light in an alcove at the head of the stairs threw a dim lightdown the passage which led off the first-floor landing, but Musard feltfor the electric switch and pressed it. The light flooded an emptycorridor, with the door of the room nearest to him gaping into a darkinterior.
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 hisfather reached the door and followed him into the room, where, less thantwo hours before, Miss Heredith had been with Phil's young wife, andleft her to sleep. The room seemed as it had been then; there was nosign of any intruder. The cut-glass and silver bottles stood on thesmall table by the head of the bed; the gold cigarette case was openalongside them; a novel, flung face downward on the pillows, revealed agarish cover and the bold lettering of the title--"What Shall itProfit?"--as though the book had dropped from the hand of some oneovercome by sleep. But the white rays of the electric globe, hanging ina shade of rose colour directly overhead, fell with sinisterdistinctness on the slender figure of the young wife, lying in a huddledheap on the bed, her fashionable rest gown stained with blood, whichoozed from her breast in a sluggish stream on the satin quilt. A sharp,pungent odour was mingled with the heavy atmosphere of the room--thesmell of a burning fabric. There was no disorder, no weapon, noindication of a struggle. Only the motionless, bleeding figure on thebed revealed to the guests clustering outside the room that somebody hadentered 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 awhisper.
"She has been murdered!" It was Phil, pressing close behind Musard, whouttered these words. "Murdered!" he cried, in an unnatural voice, whichwas dreadful to hear. He made a few steps in the direction of the bedwith his arms outstretched, then stopped, and, swinging round, faced theguests who were thronging the corridor outside. "Murdered, I say!" herepeated. "Where is the murderer?"
He stood for a moment, fixing a wild eye on the group of frightenedfaces in the doorway, as though seeking the murderer among them. Thenhis face became distorted, and he fell to the ground. His limbs seemedto grow rigid as he lay; his legs were extended stiffly, the upper partof his arms were pressed against his breast, but the forearms inclinedforward, with the palms of the hand thrown back, and the fingers wideapart. Even in his unconsciousness he looked as though he were wardingoff the horror of the sight which had stricken him to the ground.
In the presence of domestic calamity human nature betrays its inherentweakness. At such times the artificial outer covering of civilizationfalls away, and the soul stands forth, stark, primitive, forlorn, andcries aloud. The strain of the tremendous tragedy which had entered hishouse, swift-footed and silent, was too much for Sir Philip. He sank onhis knees by the side of his unconscious son, whimpering like a child--aweak and helpless old man. There was no trace of the dignity of theHerediths or pride of race in the wrinkled face, now distorted with thepitiful grin of senility, as Sir Philip crouched over his son, strokinghis face with feeble fingers.
One or two of the women in the passage became hysterical. The young menlooked on awkwardly, with grave faces, not knowing what to do. There wassomething very English in their shy aloofness; in their dislike ofintruding in the room unasked.
Musard, looking round from the bedside, glanced briefly at the prostratefigure of Phil, and then his gleaming eyes travelled to the group at thedoorway. He, at all events, was calm, and master of himself.
"The ladies had better go downstairs," he said, speaking in a subduedvoice, but with decision. "They can do no good here. And will youtwo"--he singled out two of the young men with his eye--"carry Phildownstairs? He has only fainted. Please take Sir Philip away also.Telephone for Dr. Holmes immediately, and send for Sergeant Lumbe. Andsome of you young men search the house thoroughly--at once. No, not thisroom. Search the house from top to bottom, and the grounds outside. Bequick! There is no time to be lost."
The group in the doorway melted away. The ladies, pale-faced andweeping, went downstairs together like a flock of frightened birds, andthe young men, only too glad to obey somebody who showed nerve andresolution at such a moment, dispersed at once to search the house.
Musard was left in the room alone, but not for long. Miss Heredithentered from the corridor almost immediately. Tufnell accompanied her tothe 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 hashappened? They have carried Phil downstairs, and they tried to detainme, 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 wheeledround swiftly, as if trying to impose his body between her and thefigure on the bed.
"Go back, Alethea!" he sternly commanded. "Go back, I say! This is nosight for you, and you can do no good."
He still sought to intercept her as she approached, but she gently putaside his detaining hand, and, walking to the bedside, looked down.Then, at that sight, her fingers sought for his with an impulsivefeminine movement, and held them tight.
"Do not be afraid for me," she whispered. "See! I am calm--I may be ableto 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 hisface to the door, he beckoned Tufnell to approach. The old servantadvanced tremblingly into the room, vainly endeavouring to compose hishorror-stricken face into a semblance of the impassive mask of thewell-trained English servant.
"Go downstairs and get me some hot water," said Musard quietly. "Looksharp--and bring it yourself. I do not want any maidservants here to gointo hysterics."
Tufnell hastened away. Musard resumed his place at the bedside, silentlywatching the figure on the bed. There was blood on his hands andclothes.
"Is there no hope? Can nothing be done to save her?" whispered MissHeredith.
"Nothing. The lung is penetrated. She is bleeding to death."
His quick eye noticed a change in the figure on the bed. The facequivered ever so slightly, and the blue eyes half opened. Then thestricken girl made an effort as though she wanted to sit up, but asudden convulsion seized her, and she fell back on her pillow, with onelittle white hand, glittering with rings, flung above her head, as ifshe died in the act of invoking the retribution of a God of justice onthe assassin who had blotted out her young life in agony and horror.
"She is dead," said Musard gently. "This is a terrible business, and ourfirst duty is to try and capture the monster who committed this foulcrime."
They stood there in silence for a moment, looking earnestly at oneanother. Outside, somewhere in the woodland, there sounded the hauntinggush of a night-bird's song, shivering through the quietness like asilver bell. The sweet note finished in a frightened squawk, and wasfollowed by the cry of an owl. The song had betrayed the singer.
Musard turned away from Miss Heredith, and walked restlessly around thebedroom, scanning the heavy pieces of furniture and the faded hangings,and peering into every nook and corner, as if seeking for the murderer'splace of concealment. A roomy old wardrobe near the window attracted hiseye, and he stopped in front of it and flung its doors open. Itcontained some articles of the dead girl's apparel--costumes andfrocks--hanging on hooks.
His eye wandered to the window, shrouded in the heavy folds of thedamask curtains. He walked over to it, and drew the curtains aside. Thebottom half of the window was wide open.
Miss Heredith, who was following his movements closely, gave vent to afaint cry of surprise.
"The window!" s
he 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 thewindow 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 dislikedfresh 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 escapedthrough 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 fromthe ground. And--there is the moat to be crossed. There is no bridge onthat side of the house, and this window opens on the garden. Don't youremember?"
"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 mirrorreflected its contents--ivory brushes, silver hand mirrors, all thecostly bijoutry of a refined woman's toilet. Among them stood Violet'ssilver jewel-case. Musard strode over and examined the case. It waslocked.
"This ought to be put away," he said.
"I was coming up to get it when I heard the scream," whispered hiscompanion.
"Perhaps you will take charge of it now," he said, placing it in herhands. As he did so there flashed across his mind the cynicalappropriateness of the old proverb about locking doors after stolensteeds.
There was a restraint and lack of spontaneity about their conversationof which both were acutely conscious. The note was forced, as thoughfrom too great an effort to strike the right key. A curiouspsychological change had swept over both since they stood together bythe bedside of the dying woman. It had come with the entry of death.They conversed hurriedly and guardedly, as if they mistrusted eachother. In each of them two entities were now apparent--a surfaceconsciousness, which talked and acted mechanically, and a secondaryinner consciousness, watchful, and fearful of misinterpretation of thespoken word. The faculties which make up the human mind are differentand complex, and mysteriously blended. It may be that when tragedyupsets the frail structure of human life the brute instincts ofwatchfulness and self-preservation come uppermost, guarding againstchance suspicion, or the loud word of accusation. Perhaps throughMusard's mind was passing the thought of the strange manner in which themurder had been committed, and how he, by detaining everybody downstairsat the dinner table while he told his story had been an instrument inits accomplishment.
The situation was terminated by the arrival of Tufnell with some hotwater. Almost on his heels came the young men who had been searching thehouse. Musard was relieved by their return, though his impassive facedid not reveal his feelings. Miss Heredith left the room with Tufnell,taking the jewel-case with her. Musard met the young men at thethreshold.
The tall young officer with the sunburnt face, Major Gardner, informedMusard that they had completed a search of the house from top to bottom,but had found nothing. They had also searched the grounds, withoutresult.
"Mrs. Heredith is dead," Musard gravely informed them. "She died whileyou have been searching for the miscreant who fired the shot we heard atthe dinner table. Gentlemen, he must be found. It seems hardly possiblethat he has succeeded in getting clear away in so short a time."
"We have searched the place from top to bottom," remarked one of theyoung men.
"It is a strange, rambling old place, and difficult to explore unlessyou 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 aman might hide."
"His first thought, after such a dreadful crime, would be to get away asquickly as possible," said Major Gardner.
"But how did he escape? Certainly not by the staircase, because werushed out from the dining-room directly we heard the shot, and weshould have caught him on his way down."
"Is there not a window in the bedroom? Could he not have escaped thatway?"
"The window is nearly twenty feet from the ground."
"An athletic man might jump that distance," remarked Major Gardnerthoughtfully.
"I still think it possible he may be concealed about the premises,"replied Musard. "There is an old unused staircase at the end of thispassage, which opens on the south side of the moat-house. Did you findit? It shuts with a door at the top, and might easily have escaped yournotice."
"I opened the door and went down the staircase," said the young flyingofficer. "Nobody could have escaped that way. The door at the bottom islocked, and there is no key."
The scared face of a maidservant at that moment appeared at the head ofthe stairs.
"If you please, sir," she said, addressing Musard, "one of the gentlemendownstairs sent me up to tell you that he has been trying for the lastten 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 upthe stairs.
"Tufnell," said Musard quickly, "you must go at once to the village andget Sergeant Lumbe and Dr. Holmes. Hurry off, and be as quick as youcan. And now, gentlemen," he added, turning to the others, "let us godownstairs. While we are waiting for the police I will help you makeanother search of the house and grounds. The murderer may escape whilewe stand here talking. We have wasted too much valuable time already."