The Sittaford Mystery

  “There’s a young man with her,” said Mr. Rycroft.

  “The young men of the present day make me sick,” said Captain Wyatt. “What’s the good of them?”

  This being a difficult query to answer suitably, Mr. Rycroft did not attempt it, he took his departure.

  The bull terrier bitch accompanied him to the gate and caused him acute alarm.

  In No. 4 The Cottages, Miss Percehouse was speaking to her nephew, Ronald.

  “If you like to moon about after a girl who doesn’t want you, that is your affair, Ronald,” she was saying. “Better stick to the Willett girl. You may have a chance there, though I think it is extremely unlikely.”

  “Oh, I say,” protested Ronnie.

  “The other thing I have to say is, that if there was a police officer in Sittaford I should have been informed of it. Who knows, I might have been able to give him valuable information.”

  “I didn’t know about it myself till after he had gone.”

  “That is so like you, Ronnie. Absolutely typical.”

  “Sorry, Aunt Caroline.”

  “And when you are painting the garden furniture, there is no need to paint your face as well. It doesn’t improve it and it wastes the paint.”

  “Sorry, Aunt Caroline.”

  “And now,” said Miss Percehouse closing her eyes, “don’t argue with me any more. I’m tired.”

  Ronnie shuffled his feet and looked uncomfortable.

  “Well?” said Miss Percehouse sharply.

  “Oh! nothing—only—”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, I was wondering if you’d mind if I blew in to Exeter tomorrow.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, I want to meet a fellow there.”

  “What kind of a fellow?”

  “Oh! just a fellow.”

  “If a young man wishes to tell lies, he should do so well,” said Miss Percehouse.

  “Oh! I say—but—”

  “Don’t apologize.”

  “It’s all right then? I can go?”

  “I don’t know what you mean by saying, ‘I can go?’ as though you were a small child. You are over twenty-one.”

  “Yes, but what I mean is, I don’t want—”

  Miss Percehouse closed her eyes again.

  “I have asked you once before not to argue. I am tired and wish to rest. If the ‘fellow’ you are meeting in Exeter wears skirts and is called Emily Trefusis, more fool you—that is all I have to say.”

  “But look here—”

  “I am tired, Ronald. That’s enough.”

  Twenty-two

  NOCTURNAL ADVENTURES OF CHARLES

  Charles was not looking forward with any relish to the prospect of his night’s vigil. He privately considered that it was likely to be a wild goose chase. Emily, he considered, was possessed of a too vivid imagination.

  He was convinced that she had read into the few words she had overheard a meaning that had its origin in her own brain. Probably sheer weariness had induced Mrs. Willett to yearn for night to come.

  Charles looked out of his window and shivered. It was a piercingly cold night, raw and foggy—the last night one would wish to spend in the open hanging about and waiting for something, very nebulous in nature, to happen.

  Still he dared not yield to his intense desire to remain comfortably indoors. He recalled the liquid melodiousness of Emily’s voice as she said, “It’s wonderful to have someone you can really rely on.”

  She relied on him, Charles, and she should not rely in vain. What? Fail that beautiful, helpless girl? Never.

  Besides, he reflected as he donned all the spare underclothes he possessed before encasing himself in two pullovers and his overcoat, things were likely to be deucedly unpleasant if Emily on her return found out that he had not carried out his promise.

  She would probably say the most unpleasant things. No, he couldn’t risk it. But as for anything happening—

  And anyway, when and how was it going to happen? He couldn’t be everywhere at once. Probably whatever was going to happen would happen inside Sittaford House and he would never know a thing about it.

  “Just like a girl,” he grumbled to himself, “waltzing off to Exeter and leaving me to do the dirty work.”

  And then he remembered once more the liquid tones of Emily’s voice as she expressed her reliance on him, and he felt ashamed of his outburst.

  He completed his toilet, rather after the model of Tweedledee, and effected a surreptitious exit from the cottage.

  The night was even colder and more unpleasant than he had thought. Did Emily realize all he was about to suffer on her behalf? He hoped so.

  His hand went tenderly to a pocket and caressed a hidden flask concealed in a near pocket.

  “The boy’s best friend,” he murmured. “It would be a night like this of course.”

  With suitable precautions he introduced himself into the grounds of Sittaford House. The Willetts kept no dog, so there was no fear of alarm from that quarter. A light in the gardener’s cottage showed that it was inhabited. Sittaford House itself was in darkness save for one lighted window on the first floor.

  “Those two women are alone in the house,” thought Charles. “I shouldn’t care for that myself. A bit creepy!”

  He supposed Emily had really overheard that sentence, “Will tonight never come?” What did it really mean?

  “I wonder,” he thought to himself, “if they mean to do a flit? Well, whatever happens, little Charles is going to be here to see it.”

  He circled the house at a discreet distance. Owing to the foggy nature of the night he had no fears of being observed. Everything as far as he could see appeared to be as usual. A cautious visiting of the outbuildings showed them to be locked.

  “I hope something does happen,” said Charles as the hours passed. He took a prudent sip from his flask. “I’ve never known anything like this cold. ‘What did you do in the Great War, Daddy?’ can’t have been any worse than this.”

  He glanced at his watch and was surprised to find that it was still only twenty minutes to twelve. He had been convinced that it must be nearly dawn.

  An unexpected sound made him prick up his ears excitedly. It was the sound of a bolt being very gently drawn back in its socket, and it came from the direction of the house. Charles made a noiseless sprint from bush to bush. Yes, he had been quite right, the small side door was slowly opening. A dark figure stood on the threshold. It was peering anxiously out into the night.

  “Mrs. or Miss Willett,” said Charles to himself. “The fair Violet, I think.”

  After waiting a minute or two, the figure stepped out on the path and closed the door noiselessly behind her and started to walk away from the house in the opposite direction to the front drive. The path in question led up behind Sittaford House, passing through a small plantation of trees and so out on to the open moor.

  The path wound quite near the bushes where Charles was concealed, so near that Charles was able to recognize the woman as she passed. He had been quite right, it was Violet Willett. She was wearing a long dark coat and had a beret on her head.

  She went on up, and as quietly as possible Charles followed her. He had no fears of being seen, but he was alive to the danger of being overheard. He was particularly anxious not to alarm the girl. Owing to his care in this respect she outdistanced him. For a moment or two he was afraid lest he should lose her, but as he in his turn wound his way anxiously through the plantation of trees he saw her standing a little way ahead of him. Here the low wall which surrounded the estate was broken by a gate. Violet Willett was standing by this gate, leaning over it peering out into the night.

  Charles crept up as near as he dared and waited. The time passed. The girl had a small pocket torch with her and once she switched it on for a moment or two, directing it, Charles thought, to see the time by the wristwatch she was wearing, then she leant over the gate again in the same attitude of expectant interest. Suddenly, Charles h
eard a low whistle twice repeated.

  He saw the girl start to sudden attention. She leant farther over the gate and from her lips came the same signal—a low whistle twice repeated.

  Then with startling suddenness a man’s figure loomed out of the night. A low exclamation came from the girl. She moved back a pace or two, the gate swung inward and the man joined her. She spoke to him in a low hurried voice. Unable to catch what they said, Charles moved forward somewhat imprudently. A twig snapped beneath his feet. The man swung round instantly.

  “What’s that?” he said.

  He caught sight of Charles’s retreating figure.

  “Hie, you stop! What are you doing here?”

  With a bound he sprang after Charles. Charles turned and tackled him adroitly. The next moment they were rolling over and over together locked in a tight embrace.

  The tussle was a short one. Charles’s assailant was by far the heavier and stronger of the two. He rose to his feet jerking his captive with him.

  “Switch on that light, Violet,” he said, “let’s have a look at this fellow.”

  The girl who had been standing terrified a few paces away came forward and switched on the torch obediently.

  “It must be the man who is staying in the village,” she said. “A journalist.”

  “A journalist, eh?” exclaimed the other. “I don’t like the breed. What are you doing, you skunk, nosing round private grounds at this time of night?”

  The torch wavered in Violet’s hand. For the first time Charles was given a full view of his antagonist. For a few minutes he had entertained the wild idea that the visitor might have been the escaped convict. One look at the other dispelled any such fancy. This was a young man not more than twenty-four or -five years of age. Tall, good-looking and determined, with none of the hunted criminal about him.

  “Now then,” he said sharply, “what’s your name?”

  “My name is Charles Enderby,” said Charles. “You haven’t told me yours,” he continued.

  “Confound your cheek!”

  A sudden flash of inspiration came to Charles. An inspired guess had saved him more than once. It was a long shot, but he believed that he was right.

  “I think, however,” he said quietly, “that I can guess it.”

  “Eh?”

  The other was clearly taken aback.

  “I think,” said Charles, “that I have the pleasure of addressing Mr. Brian Pearson from Australia. Is that so?”

  There was a silence—rather a long silence. Charles had a feeling that the tables were turned.

  “How the devil you knew that I can’t think,” said the other at last, “but you’re right. My name is Brian Pearson.”

  “In that case,” said Charles, “supposing we adjourn to the house and talk things over!”

  Twenty-three

  AT HAZELMOOR

  Major Burnaby was doing his accounts or—to use a more Dickens-like phrase—he was looking into his affairs. The Major was an extremely methodical man. In a calf-bound book he kept a record of shares bought, shares sold and the accompanying loss or profit—usually a loss, for in common with most retired army men the Major was attracted by a high rate of interest rather than a modest percentage coupled with safety.

  “These oil wells looked all right,” he was muttering. “Seems as though there ought to have been a fortune in it. Almost as bad as that diamond mine! Canadian land, that ought to be sound now.”

  His cogitations were interrupted as the head of Mr. Ronald Garfield appeared at the open window.

  “Hello,” said Ronnie cheerfully, “I hope I’m not butting in?”

  “If you are coming in go round to the front door,” said Major Burnaby. “Mind the rock plants. I believe you are standing on them at the moment.”

  Ronnie retreated with an apology and presently presented himself at the front door.

  “Wipe your feet on the mat, if you don’t mind,” cried the Major.

  He found young men extremely trying. Indeed, the only young man towards whom he had felt any kindliness for a long time was the journalist, Charles Enderby.

  “A nice young chap,” the Major had said to himself. “And very interested, too, in what I have told him about the Boer War.”

  Towards Ronnie Garfield the Major felt no such kindliness. Practically everything that the unfortunate Ronnie said or did managed to rub the Major up the wrong way. Still, hospitality is hospitality.

  “Have a drink?” said the Major, loyal to that tradition.

  “No thanks. As a matter of fact I just dropped in to see if we couldn’t get together. I wanted to go to Exhampton today and I hear Elmer is booked to take you in.”

  Burnaby nodded.

  “Got to go over Trevelyan’s things,” he explained. “The police have done with the place now.”

  “Well, you see,” said Ronnie rather awkwardly, “I particularly wanted to go into Exhampton today. I thought if we could get together and share and share alike as it were. Eh? What about it?”

  “Certainly,” said the Major. “I am agreeable. Do you a lot more good to walk,” he added. “Exercise. None of you young chaps nowadays take any exercise. A brisk six miles there and a brisk six miles back would do you all the good in the world. If it weren’t that I needed the car to bring some of Trevelyan’s things back here, I should be walking myself. Getting soft—that’s the curse of the present day.”

  “Oh, well,” said Ronnie, “I don’t believe in being strenuous myself. But I’m glad we’ve settled that all right. Elmer said you were starting at eleven o’clock. Is that right?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Good. I’ll be there.”

  Ronnie was not quite so good as his word. His idea of being on the spot was to be ten minutes late, and he found Major Burnaby fuming and fretting and not at all inclined to be placated by a careless apology.

  “What a fuss old buffers make,” thought Ronnie to himself. “They have no idea what a curse they are to everybody with their punctuality, and everything done on the dot of the minute, and their cursed exercise and keeping fit.”

  His mind played agreeably for a few minutes with the idea of a marriage between Major Burnaby and his aunt. Which, he wondered, would get the better of it? He thought his aunt every time. Rather amusing to think of her clapping her hands and uttering piercing cries to summon the Major to her side.

  Banishing these reflections from his mind he proceeded to enter into cheerful conversation.

  “Sittaford has become a pretty gay spot—what? Miss Trefusis and this chap Enderby and the lad from Australia—by the way, when did he blow in? There he was as large as life this morning and nobody knew where he had come from. It’s been worrying my aunt blue in the face.”

  “He is staying with the Willetts,” said Major Burnaby tartly.

  “Yes, but where did he blow in from? Even the Willetts haven’t got a private aerodrome. You know, I think there’s something deuced mysterious about this lad Pearson. He’s got what I call a nasty gleam in his eye—a very nasty glint. It’s my impression that he’s the chap who did in poor old Trevelyan.”

  The Major made no reply.

  “The way I look at it is this,” continued Ronnie, “fellows that go off to the Colonies are usually bad hats. Their relations don’t like them and push them out there for that reason. Very well then—there you are. The bad hat comes back, short of money, visits wealthy uncle in the neighbourhood of Christmastime, wealthy relative won’t cough up to impecunious nephew—and impecunious nephew bats him one. That’s what I call a theory.”

  “You should mention it to the police,” said Major Burnaby.

  “I thought you might do that,” said Mr. Garfield. “You’re Narracott’s little pal, aren’t you? By the way he hasn’t been nosing about Sittaford again, has he?”

  “Not that I know about.”

  “Not meeting you at the house today, is he?”

  The shortness of the Major’s answers seemed to strike
Ronnie at last.

  “Well,” he said vaguely, “that’s that,” and relapsed into a thoughtful silence.

  At Exhampton the car drew up outside the Three Crowns. Ronnie alighted and after arranging with the Major that they would rendezvous there at half past four for the return journey, he strode off in the direction of such shops as Exhampton offered.

  The Major went first to see Mr. Kirkwood. After a brief conversation with him, he took the keys and started off for Hazelmoor.

  He had told Evans to meet him there at twelve o’clock, and he found the faithful retainer waiting on the doorstep. With a rather grim face, Major Burnaby inserted the key into the front door and passed into the empty house, Evans at his heels. He had not been in it since the night of the tragedy, and in spite of his iron determination to show no weakness, he gave a slight shiver as he passed the drawing room.

  Evans and the Major worked together in sympathy and silence. When either of them made a brief remark it was duly appreciated and understood by the other.

  “Unpleasant job this, but it has to be done,” said Major Burnaby, and Evans, sorting out socks into neat piles, and counting pyjamas, responded.

  “It seems rather unnatural like, but as you say, sir, it’s got to be done.”

  Evans was deft and efficient at his work. Everything was neatly sorted and arranged and classified in heaps. At one o’clock they repaired to the Three Crowns for a short midday meal. When they returned to the house the Major suddenly caught Evans by the arm as the latter closed the front door behind him.

  “Hush,” he said. “Do you hear that footstep overhead? It’s—it’s in Joe’s bedroom.”

  “My Gawd, sir. So it is.”

  A kind of superstitious terror held them both for a minute, and then, breaking loose from it, and with an angry squaring of the shoulders, the Major strode to the foot of the stairs and shouted in a stentorian voice: